The Unyielding Future, page 10
“The problem is that I can no longer see the lines clearly. Things have become fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy?” I asked, which at the moment exactly described my thinking.
“Perhaps obscured would be a better term.” He had more to say and made us wait for it. “What happened at the high school was something I should have seen coming, only I didn’t until the last moment. It was very cleverly concealed. The bus fire I didn’t see coming at all.”
“You mean those wackos outsmarted you?” I whispered.
“No. It wasn’t those wackos.” He smiled briefly and then the serious version of Adis returned. “I am worried that someone ran interference for them, shielded them, and then when the time was right aimed them directly at me.”
“So you think someone set you up. They drew you out in the open, to what, expose you?” Leah asked.
“That’s one possibility. My greatest weapon has been anonymity.”
“How do know that you’re not being set up to keep us here?” Leah asked.
“I don’t,” he answered, with a degree of finality that signaled to both of us that he was done answering questions. I had about ten more, and he cut me off with a raised hand. “I have done all I can do to convince you. In the end it will be your decision.” He stood suddenly. He stared down at Leah, and for the first time ever I watch my wife look away from someone’s challenging stare. He looked at me and nodded slightly. A minute later Leah and I were alone.
“The photo that was left in our house was of Mia on Monday morning. It was taken from inside her school. Whoever took it got that close to her, and no one saw the bastard.” She had started to cry silently. “He took that little girl from her locked bedroom without leaving a trace. He’s a ghost. How do we protect our children from a ghost?” Leah hadn’t moved. She remained frozen in the same position she was in when Adis left. “What are we going to do? I’m afraid of staying, and now I’m afraid of going.”
“As strange as it sounds, I feel better with him than I do with the FBI,” I answered.
Leah dropped her head and wiped her eyes, slowly nodding in agreement. “So do I,” she said with resignation. She looked up and stared at me. “Where are we going to live? We can’t go home.”
In the end, Leah and the children made a show of packing up the car under the watchful eye and protection of both the FBI and APD (our son, the miniature detective, scoured the Denali for any tracking devices). Leah had already pulled all three kids from school. The year would be finished online for the older two, and Mia would get a pass. And then, for any and all who were watching, a three-car convoy left our house and neighborhood for parts unknown, presumably out of the state.
Gordon Anderson, who was driving the lead car, was anything but happy about our decision to stay local. The fact is, he was furious. He had called my hospital room earlier and berated me over the phone. He used words like reckless, ill-conceived, and the biggest mistake he had seen anyone make in twenty years of police work. I was unmoved, and as he became more strident I began to wonder if we would be better off without any sort of police or FBI involvement. When he finally realized that he had no chance of changing my mind (or Leah’s), we had a rational discussion about Plan B.
He did win a concession when he convinced Leah to leave her cell phone at home. The children, each of whom had their own phone—ostensibly for safety reasons (a situation that I had always found to be so excessive as to be bordering on the obscene, at least up until recent events had proven me wrong)—had also been forced to leave their electronic lifelines at home, which in their minds changed the whole situation from mildly scary but very exciting to tedious, boring, and very inconvenient. After driving through the city, the trio of cars turned west and disappeared, we hoped, into the wilds of suburbia. To be more specific, a small house on Lake Travis (the lake was down about fifty feet and about a quarter mile away from the back yard, which did not improve our children’s moods). The three-bedroom, two-bath house had been empty for two years, after the federal government had seized it from the previous owners who, like us, were now the guests of the federal government (only their accommodations came with orange jumpsuits, bars, guards with guns, and a twenty-year sentence). The bungalow had been sealed up for months, and it smelled like spoiled milk. It was infested with spiders and an odd assortment of other multilegged animals, which did not improve Leah’s mood. Still, she and the children were safe. Or so we thought.
I, on the other hand, got to enjoy the benefits of a clean and sterile-smelling hospital bed with periodic burn debridement and morphine drips for another week. I probably could have left earlier, but I didn’t really have a home to go back to. I talked with Leah three or four times a day via new disposable phones, courtesy of the FBI, and she regaled me with stories of exterminators, sullen children who were bored out of their minds, her new fast food diet, and the fact that it had taken almost a week for someone to get a stable Internet signal. I could have shared with her the joys of having burned skin scrubbed off, but I let her lean on me via cell phone signal.
I was saying good night to her when she suddenly told me to hold on for a moment. I could just make out a raised and excited voice in the background and then the sound of Mika screaming. Leah carried the phone and me along with it to our oldest child. Normally, Mika lives somewhere between reserved and sullen, but like her younger sister can, on a whim, demonstrate prodigious dramatic abilities. I kept whispering a prayer that this was just Mika being Mika and not some new development. God must have had his answering machine on, because the next thing I heard Leah say was Oh, no. She repeated it over and over again.
“What is it?” I screamed into the phone, but the only answer I got was the sound of Leah putting her phone down. Mika’s cries were muffled but they still managed to freeze my blood. Finally, Tom, our son, picked up the forgotten phone.
“Dad?”
“Tom, what’s going on?” Without thinking I had gotten out of bed and begun to look for something to wear.
“Mom’s on the computer. Mika found something.” His tone was even, and I could hear the strength he had inherited from his mother. “It’s a picture of Nitrox on Facebook. It says that Mom sent it. She’s all curled up and bloody.” His voice finally broke. “She looks dead.” He broke up the last word into two syllables. “The caption says, See what I did.” I could hear him swallow and try to master his twelve-year-old emotions. “There’s a little girl next to Nitrox. I don’t know if she’s asleep, but she’s wearing Mia’s slippers.” My mind flashed back to an image of Mia snuggled up next to me wearing those pink, fuzzy slippers just ten days earlier.
“Put your mother on.” I tried to sound like I was under control, that we had anticipated that something like this was going to happen, but Leah’s repeated oh, no’s were undermining my effort.
“Dad,” he paused. “This is weird and kinda scary but someone just signed in on Mika’s page using Mom’s account.” I’m not a Facebook person, but as far as I know this isn’t supposed to happen. “Mom just asked them why they are doing this.” The smart thing would have been for me to tell him to hang up the phone and immediately call the FBI, the police, or even Ghostbusters (he probably wouldn’t have known what that meant)—anyone. Only, I wasn’t being smart at the moment, and I had to know what was happening with my family.
“What did they say?” I had waited as long as I could wait.
“It takes a minute,” Tom answered with annoyance (he was at that age where it was okay to openly express his annoyance). “He’s writing.” Another pause. “He said, ‘Because I can.’ That’s all. Mom just typed ‘Who are you?’”
We waited, and waited. I looked at the clock above the door after what seemed like an hour, and then waited some more. “What’s happening?” I knew he couldn’t tell me, but I had to ask. I had to do something.
“It’s only been a minute and twelve seconds.” Tom’s annoyance in the face of these terrible events was beginning to annoy me. I was just about to ask him if he had any concept of the gravity of this situation when he finally answered. “He said, ‘A better question would be What am I?’ Hold on there’s more. ‘Maybe this will help.’ It’s a picture of something. It’s loading slowly.” I didn’t need to wait to know what it would be. “Oh, shit, Dad.” He had inherited his fondness for the word shit from his mother as well. “It’s a picture of the house we’re in. He was right outside the house.”
“I’m not surprised.” I was almost resigned to the fact that whoever this guy was, or whatever this guy was, he was definitely one step ahead of us. “Put Mom on.” My voice broached no argument.
“You heard?” she said simply. I could hear the resignation in her voice as well.
“Yeah. I can’t say I’m surprised. I thought they had someone watching you,”
“They do, and they’re still out there, I just checked. It’s been clear all week except for this afternoon, and it’s raining in the picture.”
“You need to call them now. Are you armed?” In a complete role reversal, Leah is the protector of the family, at least when it comes to firearms. I have fired a gun maybe ten times in my life, but she grew up with them and is an excellent shot. To my knowledge she has never intentionally fired a weapon at another human, but if it came down to it I had every confidence that she would blow away anyone who threatened her or her family, without a trace of hesitation or regret. And it wouldn’t be the Hollywood stereotype of a single dramatic shot that ends the scene (until the bad guy suddenly, dramatically jumps to his feet). Leah would use the entire clip. And then reload.
“Yes. I have the Sig.” Years ago, Leah’s father bought her a Sig Sauer P320 for Christmas (I don’t remember what I got her that year, probably the earrings she lost). This is an intimidating weapon that is used primarily by law enforcement and made with the express intent of putting down whatever is hit. “I’ll call you in a bit.” She hung up, but through that ethereal connection long-married couples create I could imagine I felt her hand curl around the grip of her favorite gun.
Chapter Eleven
🝏 🝏
THE FOLLOWING DAY, THURSDAY, MAY 19, WE WERE ALL BACK HOME. Protective custody and pretending to flee hadn’t stopped this sicko (the term now adopted by all five of us that aptly described our tormenter) from reaching out and touching us. Leah and I purposefully avoided asking each other if we thought that events proved Adis right or wrong. We also didn’t talk about Nitrox, although the kids did. She looked dead, or at a minimum badly injured. Maggie Dale looked just as bad.
My hands had started to work and I had fresh, raw pink skin up both my arms, meaning I wouldn’t need any more debridements. Just dressing changes and physical therapy to maintain motion in my joints and flexibility in my skin. Our police protection, for what it’s worth, had continued, but all of us derived more comfort from Leah’s Sig sitting on the kitchen counter. The FBI was trying to track down how Mr. Sicko was able to sign in to Facebook as Leah. I didn’t think that it was much of a mystery; the man (once again I was assuming it was a man, and as I sit here writing, and you sit there reading, we all know that it was a man) had been in our house. The press kept hounding us. Fortunately, they knew nothing of the latest development and simply wanted to know what it was like being back at home.
I was still pretty puny, and around noon I announced that I was going to take a nap. I slid my disposable, loaner phone across the kitchen counter and it lightly tapped the handgun. Leah gave me a that-wasn’t-so-smart look, and I made my way to the bedroom. For the first time in a week and a half, I was going to drop into my own bed. I almost made it. My phone rang. Not my old smart phone that I had grown to hate (too big, too many apps, etc.), which had somehow managed to survive when its owner ran into a fire, but the smaller, simpler disposable phone. It chirped and vibrated next to the 9mm Sig. The phone that had a number known only to Leah. I turned and Leah was staring at it, and for an instant I thought she would pick up the Sig and shoot it. I wish she had.
Finally, it reached its requisite ten rings and stopped. I looked back at Leah, and she looked back at me. I was just about to say that it was probably just a telemarketer when her phone began to ring in her purse. Not her nice iPhone, which she loved, but the new disposable phone that had a number known only to me. Ten rings later, it stopped and mine rang again.
I had unconsciously walked back to the kitchen and watched the small device vibrate a few times before abruptly picking it up. “Hello.” I’m not sure why I even said hello. I should have just asked Mr. Sicko what he wanted. It had to be him. The only other person we knew with “magical powers” was Adis, and calling wasn’t his style. The police and FBI had anticipated that Mr. Sicko might accelerate his contact with us, and had put taps, or tracers, or some electronic means to monitor our house phone and our old cell phones. But no one had guessed that it would be this quick or that he would use the disposable phones we had no intention of ever using again.
“I didn’t think you would pick up.” His voice had an Adis quality. Behind his words was a subliminal sound track that slipped into my brain and set the mood. “I would have had to call all day, which would have taken me away from my work.”
“I assume you’re the deviant that kidnapped little Maggie and our dog.” I turned the phone’s speaker on so Leah could hear.
“You would assume correctly. I am also the deviant that made you famous. I will confess that at first I was a little upset with you. You did spoil my plans by giving the police and the FBI something to focus on, and I worked so hard to leave them only with shadows. You know dogs are happy even when they’re barking up the wrong tree, or chasing their tails.”
“So you like dogs?” I had no idea what to say or ask. “How is my dog?”
“Nitrox . . .” he paused for effect. His verbal mannerisms were very different from Adis’s, much less polished. Less natural. He had to work to be charming. “I will admit that she has seen better days. She didn’t seem to be very keen about going for a ride with me. On a positive note, she has taken quite a shine to Miss Margaret. But you interrupted me.” He paused again to let his small rebuke resonate in my head, and it did. My only contact with psychopaths is through television and I expected him to say something like that would cost Nitrox or Maggie an appendage. “I congratulate you on your recent heroics. You seemed to have made the most of it.”
“I haven’t made the most of anything,” I sputtered. “You did that! All of it! You killed all those people!”
“Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said with a playful lilt.
“Is this all just a game to you? Do you place any value on human life?” Down deep, I felt something similar to the curiosity that affected me when I first met Adis. The depth of his psychosis was intriguing, and if conditions were different I would have liked to explore it a bit, but at that particular moment I wanted nothing more than to empty Leah’s 9mm into him.
“I don’t want to be drawn into a discussion of my psychopathology. They are quite boring. Suffice it to say that I am happy with myself and let’s get back to what’s important shall we?” I tried to place his accent and to keep track of his unusual mannerisms for the police and possibly Adis.
“What are you going to do with Maggie?” I wanted to keep the focus on the girl he had already taken, and away from my family.
“Nothing yet. It’s not time.” If voices could smile, his did.
“Look. I’m tired and hurting, and I don’t have patience for games. If you’re only calling to prove yourself I assure you it’s unnecessary. We are very impressed with your abilities to move unseen and to manipulate cell phones and the Internet. Really, I speak for Leah as well, you are truly scary.”
I had more to say, but he cut in. “Were you really going to go to New Mexico? Did the FBI convince you that you would be safe there?”
“Why are you doing this? Do you have some agenda? Do you hate the government, organized religion, the IRS, what? Are you being controlled by aliens? What is your deal?” At that moment I didn’t care if I interrupted him again.
“I will tell you, but only if you do me the favor of relaying exactly what I say to the authorities.” He gave me a moment to answer.
“I will,” I said without hesitation. According to every television drama, when confronted by the unstable antagonist, get him to talk. Let him explain himself. Of course, that’s useful in a scripted sixty-minute TV show, but not very helpful in real life.
“Tell them that I have no agenda. I am at peace with everyone and everything. What I do is completely natural for me. I am on a journey of discovery and this is my truest form of expression. I move through the world unseen, doing as I please. Sometimes I see myself as an artist, other times as a musician or a dancer, but never as an angry, hateful man metaphorically screaming out a window ‘I’m angry as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.’ Does that surprise you?”
“Frankly, it scares me even more.” I wondered what Leah thought at that moment. I was standing in our kitchen having a pleasant phone conversation with a psychopath that was threatening our family. It’s moments like this when she thinks I don’t display or express enough emotion, and it’s moments like this that I tell her not to express emotions. “You went to a lot of trouble to reach us. Was it only so you could tell us that you really don’t hate anyone and are just an artist?”
“Not entirely. I wanted to welcome you back home, but also to ask you about the man who calls himself Adis. He seems like a fascinating character, and I would love to meet him.”
“I’m sure I can arrange it,” I answered quickly. I imagined Adis sticking a nine-inch combat knife into the neck of Mr. Sicko.
“Oh, I’m sure you could, but I’d be concerned that there might be some complications along the way.” He was chuckling, and at that moment I was struck by a sudden realization. For days now, ever since he had broken into our house, I had assumed that Mr. Sicko was somehow related to Adis, maybe the other side of the same coin. With Adis-like powers, you could sneak into the home of two police-people (police persons?) and steal their child without leaving anything behind. Or you could snap pictures of an elementary student while she was in class without anyone noticing. Or you could find a family hidden by the FBI. I could go on, but you get my point. Only, Mr. Sicko knew nothing of Adis, which implied that Mr. Sicko was probably just an ordinary man. Well, maybe an extraordinary man, but not on a par with Adis. “Someday soon I will meet the famous man. But tell me something. How did he convince you to stay? Did he offer you protection? Even the FBI couldn’t keep you safe, so how do you expect an elderly, senile man to protect you? I am absolutely fascinated by this; please tell me what he said.”
