Whack Job (31 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

“Tuscadero”

Monday morning.

Dressed as a drudge, Tabitha rented a black Yukon Denali from a Budget in Alexandria. She returned to the apartment by ten a.m. At ten-fifteen, Kleiser phoned hospital administrator Beausoleil posing as an FBI agent while simultaneously e-mailing a copy of the transfer order via a slave unit in the FBI’s own computer system.

“I’ll inform staff,” Beausoleil said with a touch of relief. No muss, no fuss. Tuscadero was bursting at the seams with soothsayers, doomsayers, Napoleon, John F. Kennedy, Osama and Jesus Christ himself.

The makeover: a skull-snapping crew-cut black wig for Otto that transformed him instantly into a career government bureaucrat. The lifts in his heels raised him two inches. Tabitha expertly applied black make-up to his eyebrows. In his suit and horn-rimmed glasses, he looked like Bill Cullen. Kleiser received a slightly longer wig--but by no means radical--along with a fake mustache and cheek inserts that gave him a jowly look.

Tabitha wanted to photograph them but Otto didn’t think that was a good idea. “You’ll be able to enjoy your work on surveillance cameras,” he said.

They transferred their supplies from the BMW to the SUV in Tabitha’s basement parking garage. Kleiser replaced the rental’s plates with the fake federal units he’d prepared in Colorado. By eleven they were ready to go.

Otto turned his back on the icky-poo farewell. He’d memorized their route off the internet and took the wheel. The Yukon came with GPS, Blue Tooth, and Sirius XM. They pulled out of the dim garage into the bright glaring light of Virginia and headed toward Annandale.

They rode in silence for awhile, Kleiser burning with shame. Otto didn’t know what to say. Kleiser had taken advantage of a lonely girl. On the other hand they were trying to save the world. Was that a fair justification? No. It reeked of the fanatic’s “the end justifies the means.”

Who was Otto to judge? He was no playboy but he’d had his share of girlfriends and not always treated them well. If things went according to plan, Tabitha could claim she’d loved an historical figure. They would never meet again.

Otto turned on a local news station. You knew things were bad when they stopped reporting the weekend box office takes. There had been no new combustions over the weekend but tension was ratcheting due to other signs of the apocalypse: war in the Middle East, the collapsing economy, the imminent threat of terrorist attacks.

Traffic moved at a crawl due to numerous checkpoints. The District and surrounding environs had been adding CCTVs daily since President Reynolds’ first national emergency address. They arrived at Tuscadero State, where Otto showed his and Kleiser’s phony FBI badges obtained from the Bud K Company.

The guard waved them through.

Tuscadero was a Gothic monstrosity made of red brick. The Hippocratic Oath was inscribed on a bronze plaque on the left side of the massive concrete arched door. A plaque from the National Registry of Historic Buildings balanced it out.

Otto parked next to the red curb in the circular driveway entrance. He and Kleiser entered the building through the double-glass doors (retrofitted) into the seedy lobby where a stout black female receptionist sat behind a marble counter, metal detector set up at one end and a dozen folding card chairs half occupied with desultory family or lawyers.

The receptionist listened to something on ear buds connected to a freestanding iPod player and amplifier. Her nameplate said Clifton. As Otto and Kleiser approached, she removed the ear buds.

Otto showed her his badge. “Weeks, FBI. We’re here to pick up Lester Durant.” He showed her a copy of the transfer order.

“Just a minute,” she said, picking up a phone. A moment later, she hung up. “The Director will be right down.”

Otto and Kleiser sat on the metal chairs looking like two accountants. Shortly elevator doors behind the marble counter opened and a harried-looking man in a gray suit, comb over and glasses came out from behind the barrier holding a clipboard. Otto and Kleiser stood. Beausoleil came over and shook their hands.

“Gentlemen. May I see your ID?”

Otto and Kleiser complied. Beausoleil gave them a cursory glance. On top of the clipboard was their transfer order. The director flipped that up revealing pages of notes.

“Is this strictly necessary right now? Mr. Durant is showing some progress.”

“I’m afraid it is, sir,” Otto said. “It’s a matter of national security. If you have any questions I have the director on speed dial.”

The director sighed, shuffled through his papers and put a release form on top. “Please sign here and here.”

Otto did so.

“Mr. Durant will be down shortly. Have a good day.”

The director took the clipboard and returned to the elevator. Behind the elevator was a yellow electronically controlled steel door with a square window crisscrossed with mesh wire. Otto and Kleiser sat, hands folded on laps, eyes straight ahead, perfectly still. Doctors, specialists, service people, visitors came and went. No one gave them a second glance. Otto took out a spiral pad and sketched.

Fifteen minutes later the yellow door buzzed open releasing two hefty orderlies and Durant in green hospital scrubs with leg and wrist shackles. The sepia-colored sniper looked like a child between his two enormous minders. He couldn’t have been taller than five six. Same height as T.E. Lawrence, Otto thought. Durant glanced sharply at the receptionist who was bopping to an unheard beat.

The orderlies marched Durant out from behind the counter. The receptionist had her ear buds in and didn’t even look up. Otto and Kleiser stood to meet them.

“Thank you, gentlemen. You can take the shackles off.”

One of the orderlies, a black man with a shaved skull and a diamond earring, looked at him. “You sure? This guy’s sposed to know kung fu and shit.”

“We’re sure.”

Durant stood meekly while the orderlies unlocked his restraints. “Sir, if you’ll come with us,” Otto said.

Durant followed them through the front door out into the bright sunshine. He looked at the ground, squinted and mumbled something.

Kleiser unlocked the van and got in.

“What did you say?” Otto said.

Durant looked up at him with burning eyes. “Can’t you hear it? The devil’s music! They hate the devil’s music. It drives them mad.”

***

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

“The Devil’s Music”

They exchanged the rental for the black Beamer. The plan was to avoid the interstate, stick to blue highways and drive straight through to Colorado in twenty-five hours. Sirens wailed in the distance as they drove away from Tuscadero. They rode in silence, a subdued Durant in the shotgun seat, Otto behind him.

Ambulances and police cars passed them three times in two different directions. Otto waited until they were cruising through the endless suburbs past strip malls and big malls and cineplexes with IMAX. Past pet hospitals, usurers, tire stores, Dollar Stores, automobile parts stores and karate studios.

“Lester,” Otto said leaning forward. “I’m Otto White. This is Randall Kleiser. We know the spiders are real. We’ve seen them.”

Durant slowly turned in his seat. “You’ve seen them?”

Otto took out his sketchpad and handed it to Durant. It was a drawing of one of the creatures from memory. Durant slowly nodded his head. “Yes. That’s them. But there are always three of them.”

“How big are they when you see them, Lester?”

Durant squinted, held his thumb and forefinger up so that they almost touched.

“How is it you can even see them over any sort of distance? You were a sniper, weren’t you?”

“Yes but it’s not a matter of magnification. The people they’re in, they don’t look healthy. Most people have a healthy aura. Kinda pink. Their aura is kind of gray, and this dead black space at the base of the skull. It’s been that way ever since I got creamed by that IED in Kandahar.”

“You’re referring to your skull injury?”

Durant put a hand to a puckered pink furrow that creased the side of his crown. “Yo. All of a sudden I could see them. I only saw a couple in Afghanistan. Then I started seeing them around Washington. Like little tiny black holes walking around inside peoples’ heads. And those people they were in? They were already dead.”

“Why did you shoot them then?” Otto said.

“They’re evil,” Durant answered matter-of-factly. “Are you a religious man?”

“I believe in God and that his son Jesus is mankind’s savior.”

Durant nodded. “Me too. See, my pappy was a Baptist preacher. We believe in the holy Trinity. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. I know that’s Catholic stuff, but we got some strange Baptist brews where I come from. So if you believe in a Holy Trinity, why not an Unholy Trinity?”

“Three spiders?” Otto said.

“Exactly. What are you going to do with me, anyway?”

“We’re hoping you’ll join us in taking the fight to the enemy.”

Durant was a silent for a minute staring at his lap. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Durant said.

“Okay?”
“Okay.”

Otto clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man! What did you mean when you said the devil’s music drives them mad?”

“What’s the devil’s music, dude?” Kleiser said, eyes on the road.

“Like I said, I was raised in a Southern Baptist church. I sang in the choir. I can play a little piano. My pappy the Reverend Ezekiel Durant, God rest his soul, loved him some music. Jazz, soul, the Beatles, Beethoven, he loved it all. But there was one form of music he would not tolerate. Rap. Sir, he hated him some rap. ‘Music,’ he said, ‘is made up of three elements: harmony, melody, and rhythm.’“

“You see?!” Otto crowed.

“Now rap ain’t got no harmony nor melody. Oh sure, you may have some gal singers crooning a riff in the background, and what little melody there is has been taken from some other, better song. Which leaves you with some caricature of a nigga braggin’ on his hos, his guns, and his rides.”

“But now you have white rappers. You’ve got female and Puerto Rican rappers,” Kleiser said. “It’s a major part of the music industry.”

“That ain’t what the suburban white boys are buying,” Durant said. “They want the gangsta rap, Death Row, all that ugly shit signifyin’ a life without Christ.”

“So rap’s the devil’s music,” Otto said.

“Well that’s my feeling. But that’s not what drives them crazy. It’s Sis Boom Ba.”

Otto looked like a guppy. “Six Boom Ba?”

“Yeah. That first guy I shot? I’d been scoping him out at that park for several weeks. He’d go down to the Ninth Ward, pick up some thirteen-year-old street hustler and bring them there. One day that little girl turned on the radio, found Sis doing “Boom-Ba Style” and those three tiny black holes got all agitated--like they were going to boil over. Racing around all in a jumble like. I knew he was going to blow. That’s when I shot him. He blew anyway. I am very sorry about that little girl. I was trying to save her life.”

Otto looked out the window. Sis Boom Ba?

Otto consulted his records. Durant’s first victim had been Mortimer Kovsky, a lobbyist for Marville Chemicals. There was no direct connection to Pawnee Grove, but Kovsky had moved in high-powered circles and would have had ample opportunity to pick up a parasite.

Otto had sensed something like this out there. There had been clues all along.

Fonzelle Armstrong.

Dmitri Yakovitch.

Causation was not causality.

Could rap the Korean hip-hopper be their death ray?

***

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

“Blaster”

Tuesday evening.

They rolled into Brigham Court at six-thirty. Kleiser emptied the mailbox while Otto checked the barn. They went inside. Durant stopped just inside the door mesmerized by all the equipment. He’d driven the last 800 miles. Kleiser showed him to the sofa in the den and let him drop.

Otto had slept through most of the day and was ready to go. “I need to phone Stella. Got something I can use?”

Kleiser held up a finger, went back to the master bedroom and returned a minute later with a plastic bin filled with about a dozen cell phones. “Take your pick.”

Problem: Stella was undoubtedly under surveillance due to Otto’s escape. Could they tap her cell phone? He couldn’t take the chance. But there was someone he could phone. He fingered a Verizon unit.

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Kleiser said, plucking the phone from Otto’s hand. Otto went into the living room and switched on the flat screen to watch the parade of chaos and destruction. No new burn-outs. Maybe the aliens got the message. Maybe they were pulling out.

But if they were pulling out wouldn’t they incinerate their installations? Would they just let the bodies fall? Kleiser came back out and handed him the phone. Otto hit the mute.

“It’s going to bounce off the Frog Aegis System and a 470 gyro through Gasconne System outta French Guiana. Tony Stark couldn’t trace this call.”

“Thanks, Randall.”

Otto got up and went out on the porch. It was still daylight outside, warm and pleasant with a hint of sage on the breeze as he sat on the creaky old glider and put his feet up on the banister. It could use a coat of paint if the owner really expected to sell the place, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just a front for Kleiser. Business and politics made strange bedfellows.

He dialed the Fort Collins number from memory. It bounced around the ether for a few minutes and rang six times before Crystal answered. “Hello?” she slurred.

“Crystal, it’s Stella’s friend Otto White. You remember me.”

“Oh sure. How are you Otto?”

“Great! Say, Stella told me about your friend, the one who makes miniature amplifiers and speakers. I have a friend who’s opening up a car stereo shop and he’d be interested in talking to him.”

“Tom? Would you like me to give you his phone number?”

“And the address of his shop if you can.”

“Just a minute.”

Otto heard the Mamas and the Papas in the background. And emptiness. He imagined she was alone in the big house on the ridge drinking and listening to the old songs.

Crystal returned and gave him Blaine’s phone number and the address of his shop in Loveland. He thanked her, hung up and phoned Blaine.

“Tom Blaine.”

“Tom, this is Otto White. I’m Stella’s friend. She may have mentioned me.”

“Oh sure,” Blaine, the natural salesman, said confidently.

“She told me a little bit about your product. What do you call it?”

“The Blaine Blaster.”

“That’s it. Do you have units for sale?”

“Not really. We’re still scraping up seed money, but it is an amazing product.”

“I wonder, if I came by, if you’d show it to me.”

Pause. It was seven p.m.

“Sure. Come on by. I’m not going anywhere.” Blaine gave him the address in Loveland. Otto promised to be there in forty-five minutes. Using the Beamer’s GPS, he was there in fifty. Blaine’s shop was actually the garage of his toney west side condo on a dead-end street. The garage door was open and Blaine stood at a workbench in his well-lit garage as Otto pulled up next to an old Porsche.

Blaine came forward hand outstretched. “Hi, how are ya? Any friend of Stella’s is a friend of mine.”

Otto looked at a row of about a dozen small blue boxes, one flat surface of which appeared to be a speaker. They were made of a soft plastic that was pleasing to the touch.

Otto picked one up. “They are small. Can I try one?”

Blaine put his hand on Otto’s arm. “Not here. The neighbors complain. Come on in. Something to drink?”

Blaine’s finished basement featured the usual entertainment wall with a flat screen TV. He mixed them both a tumbler of Buffalo Trace on the rocks.

Taking the unit from Otto Blaine pointed to an input slot. “You download your songs or whatever just like you would for an iPod. The back’s a touch screen--see how it lights up when I flip up the cover?”

He poked at it and showed it to Otto. The screen showed a play list including Rick Derringer’s “Rock And Roll, Hoochie Koo.”

Otto pointed, “Let’s hear Rick.”

Blaine opened a drawer in the marble-topped credenza and removed two shooters’ sets of muffs designed to protect ears from loud sounds. Otto and Blaine put on the ear protectors. Blaine walked up to the tiny box, which rested on the credenza and pushed a button.

The sound was a physical blast that shoved you back--like that wall of fire that blew Otto into the desert. Even through the ear protectors, Otto could feel his ear drums distort. He nodded and signaled that he’d had enough. Blaine pushed a button and the ruckus mercifully died.

“Wow,” Otto said, hardly able to hear himself. Even from the basement, it must have upset the neighbors. “How much for a couple of these?”

Blaine smiled and waved his hands. “Oh no. These are my prototypes.”

“But you have so many. And I know some people who might be interested.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yes. Just because the world is going to hell in a knapsack doesn’t mean there aren’t smart investors out there looking for the next big thing. Could I borrow a couple?”

***