The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she says over the engine’s rising growl.

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Edger, I do.”

  You’re thinking she’s going to wreck this car and get you both killed, says Nigel.

  “So now you have superpowers?” I ask, ignoring him. “Come on, despite what Alex says she can order me to do, she can’t force me to read your mind.”

  She glances at me from behind her large aviator sunglasses. Then it’s back to staring down the road, hands at eleven and one, the wind lifting her hair. Just another hot blonde in a convertible, a stranger by choice, and I may as well not even be here.

  “Oh, Edger, I know you would never do that,” I say, pitching my voice higher, imitating her part of the conversation. “You’re right, I wouldn’t,” I continue, using my own voice. “Because that would be wrong.” Back to her voice: “I like how you let me keep my secrets for no apparent reason, never questioning, and even after you find out my dad is a high-ranking Nostradamus official and I just admitted to wanting to kill him myself. It’s so great how you’re totally cool with not invading my privacy, even if my conflict of interest could—hey, wait a minute,” I say, dropping the act. “Your last name is Watson? I mean…your real last name?”

  She casts me a withering look and then it’s back to the silent treatment.

  “Will you tell me what your real first name is?”

  She changes lanes and takes the on-ramp. The wind is hot and thick in my ears. My hair lashes my face. I push it out of my eyes, and the wind flattens it down. We merge onto the freeway. The engine purrs in satisfaction.

  “Is your name Mary Watson?” I ask, pitching my voice over the burr of cars whipping by. “Wait a minute—I can google it! You’re famous! But, wait—is googling information you don’t want to share any different from psychically googling your brain? Hm.”

  She spares me another glance, eyebrows raised. “That is a very good point.”

  “She speaks!”

  She frowns. She checks the mirrors and zigzags through traffic.

  Someone honks at us. Mary guns it. A few minutes pass where the banshee wind and muscular engine are too loud to carry on our conversation. I clutch my seat and wait it out. She eases up on the gas. The noise subsides somewhat. I relax my death grip on the seat and try again.

  “Come on,” I say. “We’re just talking your name here. Right? That’s gotta be publicly available information. Why wouldn’t you want me to know that?”

  “Because, Edger, it’s not my name. My name is Mary Thomas. This is me. The person who saved your gran’s and Shep’s lives. And as for Blythe Watson… I’m not her. Google her if you want, but don’t think you’re learning about me. That person is someone else.”

  “That person?”

  She glares at the road and makes no further reply. I sigh and pick at the weather stripping on the open window. Blythe. Her real name is Blythe Watson. Wow. I sink into my seat, overwhelmed. Mary slides her hand onto my leg and a roller-coaster-like thrill plummets through me.

  “Listen,” she says. “I like this. I like you, our work. It’s what I said earlier about your new life. Living it on your terms. This is me choosing my life on my terms. And those terms are you and me stopping Nostradamus once and for all. Isn’t that what matters?”

  Meeting her gaze is like eking out the last rep on too much weight, even through her sunglasses, and even for the short time she can hold it while driving. When she breaks eye contact to check the mirrors, my spine relaxes. I peer out at the mountains. Isn’t that what really matters, she asks. I don’t know. How could I? I’ve never faked my death before. I cut out of my life everyone I care about. What’s supposed to matter to a guy after he goes and does all that?

  CHAPTER Three

  The lock clicks, and Mary pushes open the front door. She drops her keys onto the entryway table next to photoshopped pictures of our make-believe honeymoon. I follow her into the house, my head still spinning on our conversation. I miss Gran, Shep, and Fabio. If we’re talking about “what really matters”—that’s it. Maybe for Mary, stopping Nostradamus is the end-all-be-all. But for me… If I’ve got to be dead, I’d like a life of my own. Maybe even a real girlfriend. Okay, so it wouldn’t totally suck if Mary and I were remotely real, but, I don’t know. I’m not such a pretend-to-fall-in-love kind of guy. Is she a pretend-to-fall-in-love kind of girl?

  Mary pulls a bowl out of the fridge and sets it on the kitchen island. Potato salad covered in plastic. It takes me a second before my brain clicks in. Oh right—block party.

  “Did you make that?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” She pulls the plastic off. “When could I possibly have made this?”

  “Well, someone made it. And you’re kind of amazing.”

  The faintest hint of a smile forms. “The movers left it.”

  “The movers,” I repeat, deadpan. “You mean the GSPOT or HARDON agents pretending to be movers.”

  “That’s right. What? You think secret agents can’t cook?”

  “I mean, cook, sure. It’s not the cooking I’m worried about.”

  Mary’s eyes narrow. Maybe she thinks I’m talking about the obvious things HARDON and GSPOT agents might get up to when no one’s home.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t mean that. I meant, are you sure that’s safe to eat? Don’t all spies carry vials of poison in their sleeves?”

  “Don’t be silly. We carry them in our purses.”

  “See? It’s stuff like that. That’s why Alex and Caleb freaked out. Because you’re all, ‘Hey everyone, I’m Mary, and you know what I think is a good time? Snipering my dad.’ Because that’s totally freaking normal.”

  She opens the fridge again, this time pulling out a case of beer. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got your powers.” She foists the case of cold beer into my arms. “Keeps the status quo and them off my back.”

  “Off your back. Mary. You’re not really going to kill your dad, right?” She stabs a wooden spoon into the potato salad and stirs instead of meeting my gaze. “Mary?”

  Edge.

  Bruce Lee?

  Yes, he replies. Nostradamus agents are approaching from the southwest. Clones. Their minds are folded, but I believe their intent is to blow up your house.

  I finish swallowing, then clear my throat. My pulse kicks into high gear.

  “Why do they keep blowing up my house?!”

  “What is it?” asks Mary.

  “We’ve got trouble. Inbound from the southwest—agents.”

  Mary calmly takes the case of beer from my arms and sets it in the fridge, then the potato salad. She bites her lip, and her eyes gloss over.

  “What?”

  “I’m wondering if I should cover that again,” she replies, her focus indicating the potato salad.

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Well, I had to put the beer back,” she replies. “You don’t want it getting shot, do you? We’re going to want it when we’re done kicking their asses.”

  I stare at her, disbelieving. “Okay. To review… Priorities: Beer.”

  She snatches my hand and drags me out the back door. We check left, check right, and then she’s towing me into the woods.

  “Do you have the ring?” she whispers.

  I blink. The ring? My wedding ring? Why wouldn’t I have the—Oh… That ring.

  “No.”

  “No!” She glances over her shoulder, one hand still on my elbow as her other twists to the side a tree branch to clear our path into the woods. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  “I mean who shows up to a block party with a superhero ring? Maybe a balloon guy?”

  Ooh! I can do balloons! offers Nigel. I do famous noses from history. You should see my Cyrano de Bergerac!

  “Edger, that ring could be the difference between life and death. You’re not to go anywhere without it. Do you hear me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I’m still adjusting from whe
n emergencies still meant Pepsi-soaked hard drives, so maybe you can cut me some slack if I’m struggling to keep up.”

  I can do a pretty mean Gonzo from The Muppet Show, says Nigel.

  Mary yanks on my arm, and we stop at the base of a tree with rickety two-by-fours nailed into the trunk. A ladder. “Up there,” she whispers. “Hurry.”

  I freeze. For a second, all I can do is watch Mary climb a tree in a dress. Then my gaze pans up—tree house. And a sign nailed outside: No Slimy Girls Allowed! I lift a finger, me being the rule follower I am, before lowering it.

  Edge, hurry, Bruce Lee urges. The Nostradamus agents know you’re not in the house. They saw you go into the woods. They’re coming.

  Okay. I get my foot on the first rung, glance up, and—wow! Mary’s sky-blue panties!

  Forget it, Edge, says Bruce Lee. You’ll never make it.

  Rub it in. I know she’s out of my league. You don’t have to be a dick about it.

  You idiot—hide!

  From up top, Mary’s waving her hand, shooing me off the ladder.

  Hide! she mouths.

  A tree branch cracks.

  I hurry around to the other side of the trunk, squeeze my arms into my sides. I close my eyes and reach out through the Collective Unconscious…

  I’ve only done this a few times. It reminds me of using the Force. Come to think of it, I should really try the Jedi Mind Trick one of these days. I bet I could do that.

  Edge—focus, snaps Bruce Lee.

  You are so gonna die, says Lieutenant Killmaster from out of nowhere.

  [Hey,] says the ninja, Hattori Hanzo. [Are we getting the band back together?]

  Peering through the Collective Unconscious, I enter the world as it is through the agent’s eyes. He’s facing our house, scanning the woods. His name is Agent…Red.

  Ugh, says Killmaster. One of those guys.

  [You shouldn’t have eaten bacon for breakfast,] says Hanzo. [A trained ninja would smell you from a mile away.]

  Yeah, well, says Killmaster. The Dr. Seuss Clones are hardly trained ninjas, now, are they?

  It’s strange, seeing the world through Red’s eyes as he creeps into the woods, a direct replay of the route Mary and I came through a second ago. He spots the tree house. The sign. Suspicion turns in his gut. The unmistakable scent of bacon hits his nose.

  Shit! Shit!

  [Told you.]

  Agent Red’s gaze tracks the ladder, down the trunk, and—is that my elbow sticking out?

  A black curtain drops over my psychic vision so fast, my head jerks backward and rebounds off the tree trunk. I blink stars and stagger forward.

  Hanzo! I call. Are you there?

  What the—? says Killmaster. Bruce, did Red do that?

  No, replies Bruce Lee, and two more curtains drop, one after another.

  Bruce? Killmaster?

  Nothing. What’s happening? Their psychic presences are gone.

  A muffled pop rings out. Birds scatter. I wheel around in time to see Agent Red’s head snap back, a crimson spot forming between his surprised eyes. My heart is banging like it wants out. My scalp prickles.

  Bruce! Bruce, I need you!

  “Edger!” Mary whisper-shouts down from the open hole in the bottom of the tree house. “Quit messing around!”

  “I—I think I just lost my powers!” I whisper-shout back.

  Her face goes white. Another twig cracks. Mary hastily scans the trees, then faces me. “Run!”

  CHAPTER Four

  No powers. No suit. Shit—I’m in trouble.

  My adrenaline is pumping. I’m huffing and puffing. I lift my knees rib-high through the understory as I dash God only knows where. My core is hot and tight. What a workout. I can’t take in the obstacles quickly enough. Branches. Tangled thickets. Roots lurking under piles of leaves.

  A branch whips past, eye-level—swoosh. I bob and weave like a boxer.

  Crap. This is suicide. I’m going to break my ankle, lose an eye, impale myself. I might even make a bad impression on the new neighbors.

  I stop and scan the area. No sign of the agents. After the mad swish of kicked-up leaves, the comparative silence of the blood pumping in my ears is deafening.

  Moving again. My foot snags something. I tumble into someone’s backyard. Wait—this is my backyard.

  Oh shit, oh shit.

  Squealing tires. Car doors slamming shut. Is that coming from out front?

  I race to the back door, barreling into a Weber grill and knocking it over as I charge past. I cringe. That clanging lid’s going to be heard a mile away.

  “He’s in back, go!”

  No I’m not! I yell psychically, straining to access the Collective Unconscious. This is not the Edge you are looking for! Move along! My sweaty hand slips on the screen door handle. I catch it on the second try, throw open the door. My hand closes on the doorknob, turns—locked.

  “That’s far enough.”

  “Well, how about that?” says a second voice, identical to the first, but farther away. “Came looking for blondie and who do we find? Bonkovich himself. Nice.”

  I raise my hands and turn around. Two agents in my driveway. Black suits, ties, Ray-Bans. Guns are drawn and at their hips.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, using my best Han Solo voice. “Long time no see.”

  The pair frowns. The one on the right uses the barrel of his gun to wave me over. The other one’s gun is unwavering. “Come on,” says the guy on the right. “We’re not doin’ chop-socky today, kid.”

  Hands still in the air, my foot releases the screen door I’m holding open, and it swings shut.

  “You go first,” says the one on the left, using the barrel of his gun to wave me over to the long driveway so I’m between them and the street.

  I comply. It’s a better idea than getting shot.

  I cross the patio to the driveway. On the far side of the street, a couple and a small child are out walking their dog. I lower my hands. The man glances over, sees us, waves. I return the wave and steal a peek over my shoulder. The two agents have stowed their guns behind their backs and are waving in return. The dog barks and tugs on the leash. The man and woman exchange an uncertain glance. The family hurries on.

  “Nice neighborhood,” says one of the agents.

  “Cute dog,” says the other. “Terrier?”

  “No, no. You don’t know your dogs at all. That was a corgi.”

  “What? That wasn’t a corgi. Corgis are like, little dogs.”

  “They can get that big. Hey, kid. What kind of dog was that?”

  And here’s my chance. They’re standing there, guns behind their backs, arguing about dog breeds. Anyone! Can anyone from the Collective Unconscious help me?

  I mean, answers Nigel, I’m still here.

  Okay! Good, good! This is good. What’ve you got?

  Well…I got my orange belt once.

  That’ll have to do. I surrender control.

  “Ah-hah!” I yell, striking a fighting stance and forming two rigid karate hands in front of my face.

  The two agents exchange a doubtful glance, then raise their weapons. Eyeing my karate hands, the one on the left screws his face up. “If that’s kung fu, then I’m Jackie Chan.”

  Nigel has me shake my karate hands threateningly.

  Stop that, I say. We look ridiculous.

  Yeah, replies Nigel, deflated. Full disclosure: I never went in much for the punching and kicking part. Of tae kwon do, I mean.

  You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?

  “Look, kid,” says the agent on the left. “It’s clear you’re not on your game. So here’s how it’s gonna go down. You know what we want.”

  “Um, no. Korean-Columbian fusion? I hear there’s a nice place on West 6th. People keep telling me I need to try the Columbian chorizo kimchi rice thing, but I get a little gassy when I—”

  “No, no. We want your blood to make the superserum. And one way or another, we’re gonna get it. Okay? So eit
her you get in the car on your own, or I shoot you right now, and Ed here’s gonna load you into the trunk and we get your blood postmortem-like.”

  “Wait a minute,” says Ed. “Now wait just a flippin’ minute. I had to do disposal last time. It’s your turn.”

  “Yeah, but we need his blood. Which means needles. And you know I hate needles.”

  “Okay. I’ll do the needles, but you’re doing disposal. Cleaning up the mess, wrapping him in plastic, the whole rigmarole—I hate that shit. You know I hate that shit.” Ed looks at me. “How tall are you? Six-three? Six-four?”

  Still striking my karate-for-dummies pose, I ask, “Are we really having this conversation right now?”

  “I’m saying six-three, two-twenty, two-twenty-five,” says Ed, turning to address the other agent. “Point is, he’s gonna be heavy. Heavy people bleed a lot. Trust me. Disposal on this one’s gonna suck.”

  “I think you’re making that up,” says the other. “People don’t bleed more because they’re big.”

  “Sure they do. He’s got more blood in him than you or me because he’s taller. Look at all the extra area the blood’s gotta go. It’s physics.” Turning to me, he adds, “Ted sucks at physics.”

  “Tall people do not—I repeat, not—bleed more,” says Ted.

  “Whales bleed more.”

  “Whales? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Whales are huge. It stands to reason they have more blood.”

  “Now you’re callin’ him a whale?” Ted shakes his head and faces me. “I’m sorry. This is unprofessional. Ed means no offense. You clearly work out. Ed here’s been off his game since, well, you know, the unfortunate shooting at Qualcomm Stadium. Him and Jed were…well, like brothers.”

  “The ‘shooting’ at Qualcomm?” I reply, still posing for karate crackers. “You make it sound like some kind of random act of violence. They were going to kill me and my dad.”

  Ted frowns and raises his gun again. “Eh. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. You know, it helps if you think of it like cat and mouse. You mouse, me cat. So. We gonna do this or what? Sooner or later, one of your neighbors is gonna come by, and I’d hate to have to pop one of them too. Seem like nice people. Especially the terrier.”