The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  Okay… I reply. The Diner. Forty-four 9th Avenue. Tomorrow night at nine. Don’t talk to the press or anybody else, and I’m supposed to come alone.

  Does that mean I can’t come? asks Nigel. I’ve never met a dickhead of state before. Where are my manners? Nigel Willianbottom, at your service!

  Nigel seizes control and forces me to do his reach and thrust maneuver again.

  “Jesus Christ,” says the prime minister. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait!” I say, spinning around before remembering to speak telepathically.

  Why did you bring me here just to set up another meeting there? I ask. It doesn’t make any sense.

  Because the Great Eye sees all and knows all, he replies, using a mystic tone. Aa-and he also makes everything really fucking complicated.

  Invisible footsteps march away down the bridge, and I relax my white-knuckled clasped hands. Man. What. A. Dick. Now I see why Mary wants to kill him. I wonder how much a new sniper rifle costs. Maybe she’s got a birthday coming up, or a—

  But your team, says Nigel. You can’t kill him. Not if you want your superhero team to keep going.

  I was joking, Nigel. But seriously. Forget about him being invisible and talking in my brain for a second. Who, or what, is the Great Eye?

  Duh, it’s Nostradamus, says the prime minister, back again, and I nearly fall over.

  Holy crap, you scared the hell out of me! I thought you were gone!

  I was. I came back. I dropped my Fitbit over here somewhere—ah, there it is. Have you noticed? The bands on these things suck balls. Anyway. Gotta get my steps. You two piss off.

  Again, his footsteps march away. I stare after him into the empty darkness, and an unseasonably cold wind ripples through my hair. My pulse starts to settle from him sneaking up on me, when jogging footsteps return me to the here and now. Alex runs up the bridge, huffing and puffing. She halts in front of me, bends over, and puts her hands on her knees. Seeing her like this, I can only clench my teeth and try not to smile.

  “Thank God. I’m saved.”

  “Screw you, Bonkovich.”

  “Another second and I’d have been a goner.”

  She frowns on one side. “Did you meet him or not?”

  “I did. And I didn’t die. All thanks to you.”

  “Cut the shit.” She straightens. “You weren’t killed. My plan worked.”

  “If by ‘plan’ you mean sending me into a dangerous situation completely without backup, then yes, it worked.”

  Her dark eyes glower. “You’re Zarathustra. You’ve got all the backup you need in that annoying little brain of yours. So just give it up already. What did you learn?”

  “What did I learn? Hmm. For one thing, he was invisible. For another, he’s telepathic. Oh, and he’s a total dick. I can see why Mary wants to kill him. Dick. Da-dick-dick-dick. Dick.”

  “Bonkovich,” she says, one dark eyebrow slanting in disapproval. “Invisible? Telepathic? You’re yanking my chain.”

  I slump. “Come on. I’ll tell you about it in the van. And then you’re going to get me into my room without Mary noticing. And then we never speak of this again.”

  She peers up at me, searching my eyes as she suppresses a smile. “All right, lover boy. Let’s go. If we hurry, you can catch her before her clothes finish drying.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m debriefed. Alex is incredulous, but she’s as good as her word. We arrive just ahead of the bellhop pushing a luggage rack full of Mary’s things down our hallway. Alex flirts with him while I enter the suite. I tiptoe to my bedroom. Room service buzzes. I open and close my bedroom door loudly so Mary can hear. I tip the bellhop and push the cart of laundry to Mary’s door, knock.

  “Just leave it there, please,” says Mary.

  A half hour later, I’m pretending to be asleep when a knock comes at my bedroom door.

  “Edger?” whispers Mary.

  A ray of light pierces the dark. I say nothing, breathing deeply to sell it. Some seconds later, the latch on my bedroom door clicks. The room is engulfed in darkness.

  CHAPTER Twenty-Four

  Morning.

  I tip the bellboy, then grab the gilded cart and push it into the dining room. The aroma of sizzling bacon and slightly charred sausage leaves a vapor trail behind. My stomach rumbles. A carafe of Bloody Marys, pancakes with strawberry toppings, hash browns, fruit salad, granola, yogurt… I grin. Gran would’ve loved this. She would’ve loved it delivered to her room. My grin fades.

  “Team meeting’s at four, meeting with your dad in fifteen,” says Mary, waltzing into the dining room and holstering her firearm behind her back. Today, it’s tank top, jeans, and boots. It’s a solid look for a solid babe. Even if her tank top is a bit too creased.

  “Alex hasn’t changed at all,” she says, checking her smartwatch and pulling up a chair.

  “You just talk to her?” I ask, setting out plates.

  “Mm-hmm. Kasabian hasn’t given anything up, not that she wants my help with his interrogation. She doesn’t trust me. She’s still acting like I’m gonna kill the prime minister.”

  “In fairness, you did kinda say you wanna kill him.”

  She shrugs. “He’s a bad guy.”

  “Is he?” I ask, biting off the end of a strip of bacon and half pretending it’s a voodoo doll of her dad.

  “Why? Did he say something to you? Edger—did he say anything to you?”

  The bacon gets lodged in my throat. I hack a few times, bang my fist on my chest, and it comes loose. I clear my throat before speaking.

  “I meant he’s coming clean. He’s outing bad guys. Why can’t you see he’s trying?”

  “Because, Edger, I know him. I know the kind of man he is. What I don’t know is what he’s up to, or why every single article of clothing I packed got laundered the second after I sat down in the bath last night.” Her eyes narrow. “I don’t like what I don’t understand.”

  I part my hands and give a tiny shrug.

  “Are you nervous about something?” she asks.

  I pour out two Bloody Marys, my brain short-circuiting. I raise my drink. Wait a second. The last time we had drinks… I point into the glass and arch an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes, takes a drink from hers. Her eyes widen meaningfully: See? No knockout drugs. I blow out a sigh and take a sip from my own. Mm—spicy.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m nervous about Dad. Mary—what happened at Dr. Cozen’s office shouldn’t be possible. It proves Dad knows a few tricks he isn’t sharing.”

  Mary’s forehead tightens. “You think he’s keeping secrets from you?”

  “Yes. He invented the superserum injected into my blood, but he’s not here helping? He should be on our team, not out there on his own. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to be with his son.”

  She tilts her head, her gaze warming. “I’m sure that’s not it.”

  “I don’t know. Wait—hear me out. I spent my life thinking he was dead. Then I find out not only has he been alive, but he was literally at Notre Dame to witness the worst mistake of my life: me getting kicked out of school.”

  “Yeah, but you did it to save Caleb’s football career. It shows you’ve got a heart of gold. Your dad would appreciate that better than anybody.”

  “No. Dad would’ve hated it. I let him down.”

  “No, Edger. You are an honorable, good, kind person,” she says, marking her words to underscore the point. “Your dad sees the best in you. I know he does”—her tone softens—“because the best in you is obvious to me. How could he not see it too?”

  My chest and stomach tingle as the light in her eyes reaches into my emotional memory and dials me back to high school, where everything is riddles and head games and hormones. Her fingers stroke my cheek. The hairs on the back of my neck snap to attention. Spy Mary is gone. This is Real Mary. I can’t say how I know. I just do.

  Real Mary glances at her watch, and a cloud settles over her features. Spy Mary wants us to know we’re on a
tight schedule. We shovel down what we can from our breakfasts, and four minutes later, we’re hurrying out the door.

  The lobby is teeming with activity. So many faces. I can’t take them in fast enough. I’ve got to hand it to Dad, it’s the perfect spot to hide. Old people, young people. People in suits. People in dresses. Would Dad be disguised in a dress? Well, there was the one Halloween.

  “Let’s split up,” says Mary. “You go that way, I’ll head up front. Circle back to the seating area in the middle.”

  She marches off without waiting for acknowledgment. I cut for the bar and almost run over a family of four. The father is young—not Dad—and my gaze quests for the next possibility. A man seated near the elevator reading a newspaper. Could be the right size and build as Dad.

  “Leonard!” a woman’s voice calls from behind me. The man tips the newspaper down and smiles. Not Dad. He folds the newspaper, stands, and opens his arms. A woman in a tweed skirt runs to him, and it’s all Casablanca.

  I grit my teeth and pick up the search. If Dad is in disguise, what would he have come as? Now that’s a fun game. When I saw him at the Q, he looked like a beach bum. He won’t be a beach bum today. Maybe today he’ll be the way I remember him, the famous neuroscientist. Suit, tie, clean-cut.

  Behind me, the elevator dings. I turn. A group of Japanese businessmen steps off. Wait—could Dad be hiding among them? A bunch of girls in UConn shirts crosses between. I duck left to keep the businessmen’s faces in my line of sight. One of them almost collides with a passing luggage cart. The bellboy ducks his head in apology, says something. No good, he’s out of earshot. The businessmen wait for the bellboy to pass and bow to someone new. Tall man, broad shoulders. Thick, graying hair. The bellboy tugs the brim of his cap down. A blue light flashes from his ear. It’s one of those noise-canceling earbuds like we sold at the Über Dork. The UConn girls get between us again. My stomach knots.

  The broad-shouldered man leads the businessmen through the lobby. I set off after them, searching for a glimpse of his face. A brown-skinned man in a big turban crosses in front of me. My pulse kicks up. I step around a middle-aged woman headed for the door, then hurry back a few steps, scan her face—nope, not Dad—then search again for the broad-shouldered man. I lengthen my steps. Wait, would Mary have completed her circuit yet? I check over my shoulder. Most of those UConn girls have huddled in the seating area in the middle of the lobby. But no Mary.

  I collide into something solid.

  “Excuse m—” a girl in front of me begins to say, before tumbling forward. My arms move with minds of their own as I try to catch her. Her eyes roll up into her head.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her full weight sinks into my hands. I don’t have a good hold—we’re going down. I pull her weight toward me, twist to the side, and go down on one knee. Phew, that was close. I lower her onto her back. Above her freckled cheeks, her eyes are darting left and right beneath closed lids. REM sleep? I don’t get it. How is she unconscious?

  Motion on my left; a disturbance among the businessmen. I shift on my knee to face them. They’re on the floor. The family of four waiting at the elevator drops to their knees and topple sideways. A crash on the piano keys wheels me around. The pianist has taken a face dive on the keyboard. My ears are ringing. My skin prickles. I draw my hands out from beneath the stranger in my arms—careful she doesn’t bonk her head—and rise to my feet. Everywhere I look, everyone is on the floor, out cold. My stomach plunges. The walls seem to constrict around me.

  Movement on my right; Mary, gun drawn and aimed down, advancing toward me from the front door, her gaze scanning for threats.

  “Edger, get down!”

  Her gun sweeps up. I track her line of sight. The bellboy is creeping out from behind a luggage cart, palms raised. Dad!

  His eyes find mine. His face lights up. I raise a halting hand toward Mary.

  “Mary—it’s him. It’s Dad.” She doesn’t lower her gun. Why isn’t she lowering her gun? “Mary. Come on!”

  “What’re you doing?” she asks, her tone brittle like frozen glass.

  “What do you mean what am I—”

  “It’s for everyone’s protection, Mary,” says Dad.

  My gaze whips from Dad to Mary and back. Then I take in all the unconscious people.

  “Dad? You’re doing this?”

  Hands still in the air, his mouth compresses.

  “Dad?”

  “Edge, they need to be asleep. It’s not safe.”

  Mary’s eyebrows lower. “Are there clone agents nearby?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Not clone agents. Nostradamus.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “We can sit.” Dad gestures with his bellboy hat to the seating area. “We don’t have much time. Mary, you’ll have to trust me.”

  Her eyes bore into Dad’s.

  “Mary, it’s my dad. Please.”

  The barrel of her gun tips down. Dad lowers his hands. He closes the distance between us, grabs my arm—

  “Stop!” calls Mary, her gun sweeping up.

  —and reels me in for a bear hug.

  We’re in it now. And even though I’m angry over twenty years of him not being there, and angry all over again for him vanishing right after I found him—I’m a kid again. It’s my dad. His scent is just how I remember. Old books and that cable cardigan sweater he used to wear. His frame is smaller in my arms than I expect. But it’s a muscular embrace. I clench my eyes. Tears leak out the corners. An atavistic hierarchy takes shape in my emotional memory: Gran, the life preserver when I was drowning; Mom, the wind in my sail; and Dad, the anchor to my soul. His grip relaxes. We pull apart. His eyes are as red rimmed as I know mine must be. We expel identical chuckles and scrub the tears away, both of us using our wrists. He notices me noticing this, and we break into identical grins.

  “Livin’ on the Edge, Edge,” he says.

  I stifle a sob. “Livin’ on the Edge, Dad.”

  He hasn’t said this to me in twenty years. I shake my head, marveling over Dad in the flesh. He’s worn down a bit. Rumpled clothes, five-o’clock shadow, and his hat head is shaped like a thunderbolt. But he’s whole, and we’re together. That’s what matters.

  Dad sighs and takes a seat on the sofa. Mary holsters her gun behind her back and sits across from him.

  “How are you doing this?” she asks, her tone taking charge of the situation.

  “A little piece of tech Indiana Tim cooked up,” he replies, tapping the noise-canceling earbuds. “It’s like Edge’s ring.”

  “How is it like my ring?” I ask, sitting next to Dad.

  He shrugs. “In every way.”

  “Dr. Bonkovich—”

  “Please. Call me Charles.”

  “Charles.”

  She dampens a smile. My eyes sweep from her to him and back. Ah-ha. Look at Dad being all charming.

  “Why did you contact us?” she asks.

  “Nostradamus,” he replies. “He can access the Collective Unconscious. Not like you can, fortunately, but enough. Enough to wreak havoc, read your mind… I’m not sure how well. Assume whatever you know, he knows.”

  “Wait—what?” I shake my head. “Read my mind! Is that like Mary telling me someone’s been tampering with my service? I’m getting hacked like a cell phone?”

  Mary and Dad study each other’s faces with piercing scrutiny, neither speaking, their expressions neutral.

  “Dad,” I say. “Is this person accessing the Collective Unconscious the way you do? And just so we’re clear, who are we even talking about here? Nostradamus? As in, a person? Some kind of self-styled retro villain? Inspired by the guy from history?”

  “No,” says Dad. “This is the guy from history. He’s the one interfering with your power. You’re not losing it. Ha! Because if you were, that’d be the plot to—”

  “Superman 2,” I cut in, grinning. “1980, Christopher Reeve—”

  “Margot Kidder, Gene Hackman, and Teren
ce Stamp as General Zod!”

  We high-five, and I shift to face Mary.

  “Yeah, if it were Superman 2, I’d totally just go into the crystal chamber and get my powers back.”

  “But we don’t have one of those,” says Dad. “Although Indiana Tim wanted to make one.”

  “Why? Did you anticipate this problem?” I ask. “Like Jor-El?”

  “I did,” Dad replies, “but the crystal chamber was more of a cosplay idea. We thought we’d stick it in the lab and we could take our lunch breaks in it. I like a fun work environment.”

  “Right on. I gotcha.”

  Mary slumps into the sofa. At the opposite end, the shifting weight rolls a sleeping teenager forward. He falls to the ground with a whump, and his Nintendo Switch cracks him in the back of the head.

  “Ooh.” I wince.

  “He’ll be fine.” Dad shifts to face Mary. “You know, Edge gets goofy when he’s nervous. Sometimes he can even say some pretty weird things. It’s nothing neurological, though.”

  “Good to know,” she replies. “I can rule out Roadrunner Tourette’s, then?”

  He winks and makes a clicking sound in his cheek, then shifts to face me. “Edge, you need the prime minister’s technology to counter Nostradamus’s interference.”

  “Okay, good,” I reply. “That’s what we figured too. Probably some kind of mental dampening device or electronic thinking cap. Maybe a Way Back Machine for going back in time. Please tell me this is going to involve time travel.”

  “Edge, no. Time travel doesn’t exist. We don’t have the technology.”

  “But if you did, it’d be a DeLorean, right? Huh?”

  Dad raises his hand for another high five, then notices Mary’s folded arms and flat expression. He lowers his hand. His mouth compresses into a thin line. I wrench my brain back to business.

  “Then what is it, Dad?” I ask. “What’s the prime minister got that I need?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  His face is deadpan. I expel a burst of air.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Nostradamus is very dangerous. He’s cut you off from your go-to guys inside the Collective Unconscious.”