The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “That’s right,” I say. “I can verify that if you like?”

  Alex shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “I’m also rather gifted at Tantric yoga,” I say, laying a finger along the side of my nose and widening my eyes. “I’m just saying. If that skill should be required, perhaps on a future mission—or otherwise?” My eyebrows wag up and down. Alex turns her head as she dampens a smile.

  “You do realize we’re going to need Mr. Bonkovich back.”

  “Need him back? Oh yes, fine. All right. I’ll be here if you need me. There’s no corrupting Nigel Willianbottom!”

  Nigel releases me, and I tip forward into the bar, panting, my heart racing.

  “Bonkovich?”

  Straightening, I steady my breathing and keep my hands flat on the polished bar surface. I shift on my stool to face her. She leans away, her black eyeliner repelling any read on her.

  “Okay,” she says. “You’re mad. Fine. But can you get over it?”

  Get over it? My blood is pure jet fuel. I’ve given my life to these people, faked my death, left everything behind. Mary’s the only friend I have left. And now she’s in a cell that, as far as I know, is as off the books from any real jurisdiction as can be found on US soil.

  “Bonkovich.”

  “You threw me under the bus.”

  She shrugs. “You trusted me. I’m a spy. And here’s some more breaking news for you: Mary’s not your girlfriend. She’s a spy, moron. Never trust a spy.”

  “I’ll never trust you again.”

  “I don’t want your trust. Mary asked for your trust, look what happened. I’m asking for your respect—because that’s what professionals do. Believe it or not, I’m on your side.”

  “So. What? I’m supposed to keep taking orders from you now?”

  “Call it mutual self-preservation. You want your powers back, I want you to stop an assassination. We meet the prime minister as planned. You walk out of there fully powered and ready to stop an assassination. Washington’s happy, I’m happy, everybody’s happy.”

  “Do I look happy?”

  “You are many things, Edger Bonkovich,” she says, frowning. “But you’re not stupid.”

  “I’m also no longer a part of this team. I’m out.”

  She takes a deep breath and holds it in, her mouth pulling to one side. I slide off the barstool and head for the door.

  “I will provide support from the van,” calls Alex. “You are to get that technology at any cost. I don’t have to tell you what the stakes are.”

  I stop in the center of the dance floor. Above me is a giant disco ball, identical to the one Mary and I almost died in back in San Diego. Mary’s faced everything with me. She’s been by my side since the beginning. And now she’s gone, and Alex thinks she’s going to swoop in and take her place?

  “You screwed up,” I say. “You took away the one person who’s actually saved my life a time or two. And you’re forgetting how it went last time you provided support from the van.”

  “You lied to me! I didn’t know you didn’t have your powers. I never would’ve let—” Her teeth click shut. Her nostrils flare. “Focus. Drop all this aggrieved bullshit for five damn minutes. I need to know you’re prepared to help us save Mary’s father.”

  “You don’t care about her father. You only care about Washington financing your secret clubhouse.” I turn to go, but Alex keeps talking.

  “If you walk out that door, how are you going to live, Mr. Thomas? Edger Bonkovich is dead! You can’t go anywhere. We own your social security number. We own you.”

  “When I get my superpowers sorted out, I’m coming for Mary,” I reply. “You shouldn’t be here when that happens.”

  CHAPTER Thirty-TWO

  The train squeals to a stop. The doors open, and everyone squeezes through onto the subway platform. Elbows and shoulders push past on either side, and my nerves kick in. I check my smartwatch. Eight forty-five.

  Nigel. Nigel, are you there?

  Nothing.

  Nigel, come on. You can’t hide forever.

  Nothing. I grit my teeth and hit the stairs two at a time.

  I emerge from the subway into a bustling Chelsea neighborhood, scan for a street sign, and spot the diner across the street. For a second, I do nothing as traffic speeds past. Am I doing the right thing? Dad said the prime minister has the tech I need. That means I’ve got to go inside, right?

  An attractive woman steps up to the crosswalk and gives me an appraising once-over. Could this be the mind reader? I stuff my hands into my pockets and wait for the light to change. In my peripheral vision, the woman chuckles and shakes her head.

  The light changes. We cross. At the other side, I check my watch again. Eight fifty-seven. The New York foot traffic absorbs the woman and passes me by.

  I hurry to the front door of the restaurant and go inside. There’s the prime minister. He looks the same as I remember him from the briefing. Graying at the temples, Mary’s quick-witted eyes. Handsome in the way famous people are. He’s seated alone in a booth in the corner. Two men in suits have taken flanking positions at the coffee bar. Could one of them be the mind reader?

  The prime minister’s gaze turns from the window to spot me. He slides out of the booth and stands, gesturing for me to take a seat. I comply. He signals the waitress and flashes a disarming smile. Mary’s smile. Man—it’s uncanny. And, in this context, a total downer. But I’m almost there. I’ll get the technology, then my powers, and then I’ll spring her from jail. Bada-bing, bada-boom.

  The waitress comes over.

  “Coffee?”

  I shake my head. “Just water, please.”

  The waitress takes off, and Prime Minister Watson’s eyes drill into mine. This too is like Mary; in the fluorescent light, his shade of blue is almost silver. But I won’t be intimidated this time. I straighten in my seat and return his level gaze.

  The waitress returns with my water, which sloshes a bit as she sets it on the table.

  “Ready to order?”

  “The goat cheese and arugula omelet, please,” says the prime minister.

  The waitress turns to me. I shake my head. She flips her book shut, snatches the menus, leaves. The prime minister sips his coffee.

  “I confess. I’m a little surprised Mary allowed this to happen.”

  I make no reply.

  The prime minister’s eyebrows go up, and he exchanges an unreadable look with his security detail.

  “Not so chatty tonight?” he asks.

  I lean in and lower my voice. “Look. I saved your life yesterday by tipping you off about the church service and then capturing Kasabian. Last night, you were a total dick. So, if you’ve got my tech, let’s do this. I’ve got places to go, people to save.”

  “Did anyone else follow you here?” asks the prime minister.

  “No.”

  Prime Minister Watson rests his elbows on the table. “Well then,” he says, sliding a salt shaker across the table. “Here is your technology.”

  I stare at it as my brain triggers the alarms. Is this some kind of joke? The salt shaker is just a salt shaker.

  The prime minister makes a slashing gesture.

  A sharp pain in my neck—

  “I’m sorry my technology isn’t more to your liking,” says the prime minister, his voice echoing in my brain. One of the two men in suits slides in next to me, pushing me over and crowding me. My head tips right to rest on the wall as the man on my left tucks something into his jacket pocket.

  “That concludes our business,” says the prime minister. “Nostradamus thanks you, Mr. Bonkovich.”

  I try to hold my eyes open, but it’s no good. A tiny laugh escapes, as for some reason the situation triggers my funny bone.

  “What is it?” asks the prime minister.

  “You.” I wheeze. “Just like…your daughter. Handy…with the knockout drugs.”

  I black out.

  Alex races into the
diner, her sidearm drawn. A tray collides with her shoulder; coffee mugs, plates, and glasses shatter on the ground.

  “Hey!”

  Heart pounding, she pushes the waitress aside. Her gaze sweeps the restaurant.

  Dammit! No sign of the prime minister—or Bonkovich.

  “Do you have a back door?” she snaps.

  The waitress points.

  Alex takes off in the direction indicated, raising the transmitter clipped on her cuff to her mouth.

  “Caleb. We’ve got a problem.”

  “Take a number,” Caleb’s voice returns. “I’m at base. Mary’s not in her cell, and one of our sniper rifles is missing.”

  CHAPTER thirty-Three

  The thick noise is like twisting cotton in my ears. My stomach lurches. My skin feels bloated. The air tastes stale. Cold water splashes me in the face. My head snaps back into something soft but firm. I sputter and spit.

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  The ground lurches. My seat bottom pushes up into my butt. Tires squeal. My wrists are strapped down. I open my eyes. Two Dr. Seuss clones are seated across from me, airplane buckles secured across their laps. The one on the right has a half-full bottle of Aquafina. He removes his Ray-Bans and his bushy eyebrows lower.

  “Don’t expect any kindness outta Ked here,” says the other one. “He’s not a morning person.”

  “Had to drag my ass outta bed for this,” says Ked, putting his sunglasses on and leaning into his seat. My head lolls to the side. Through the window is an airplane hangar. The plane turns toward it.

  “Wheyooakee…?” I say.

  “What’s that?” asks Ked.

  “Sounds like he said ‘whey you achy,’” says the other.

  “Well, I know it sounds like he said ‘whey you achy,’ but seeing as that doesn’t make any sense, I thought maybe he should clarify.”

  “Wheyooakee?”

  Their mouths pull identically to the side as they exchange glances. I swallow to work some moisture into my mouth and give it another try.

  “Wheyougayme?”

  The two clones’ heads cock back. The one who isn’t Ked takes off his glasses and performs a reenactment of the bushy eyebrow scowl the other one did a minute ago.

  “Look, kid. We don’t do like that. Not everybody who slips you a roofie does the nonconsensual butt stuff. Howzabout next time you think for twelve more seconds before jumping to such a bold conclusion.”

  Ked also takes off his glasses and sits forward.

  “I am hurt. No. I am more than hurt. You know, we’re people too. Just because we happen to be in a line of work which involves drugging and kidnapping, and sometimes regrettably we are perhaps required to carve people’s retinas out with razor blades and list them on eBay for the low-low prices, doesn’t mean we’re not people. Accusing someone of sexual wrongdoing is a serious accusation.”

  “It’s character assassination is what it is,” says the other.

  “That’s right. It’s leaping to the nuclear option before using your words. Zed here’s got kids, for cryin’ out loud. You ever think what they would think, if they thought you thought we thought we’d roofie you for the nonconsensual butt stuff?”

  “What kind of monsters do you think we are?” asks Zed.

  “Butt monsters,” replies Ked. “No. Nonconsensual butt monsters.”

  “Where…d’you cake me?” I ask.

  They identically screw up their faces. A beat later, they’re putting their sunglasses back on and settling into their seats.

  “Kid’s some kinda pervert,” mutters Zed, snapping open a newspaper.

  “You got issues, kid,” says Ked, scrolling his phone.

  “Take me!” I sputter. “Where’d you take me?”

  “South Bend,” Zed replies. “But I tell you what. After the handoff, I’m putting in for a transfer. I can’t be seen associating with perverts like you. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  “Me too,” says Ked. “All it takes is for the wrong person to hear the wrong scurrilous accusation and—boom—you lose the job, the mistress, the house, the kids, the dog, the turtle, the hamster, the goldfish, the wife, and ninety-five percent of everything you got left goes to the lawyers.”

  “I can’t even imagine what the boss would say if he thought we were doing the extracurricular nonconsensual cake-butt stuff on the side,” says Zed.

  “I shudder to think,” says Ked.

  “I shudder to think,” mirrors Zed.

  The plane rolls into the hangar, and the two clones stop talking.

  Ked and Zed load me into a wheelchair. I try again to explain I’m too groggy from the knockout drugs and my words haven’t come online yet—but before I can get anything out, they’re gagging me with a stinking rag one of them found in the galley.

  “There,” says Zed. “That ought to keep him from making further false accusations.”

  “But what about when they take the gag out?” asks Ked.

  Zed shrugs. “We do what we always do. We say he’s confusing us with Ned.”

  Ked’s nose wrinkles. “Ned. That guy’s disgusting.”

  “You got that right.”

  I’m rolled onto a hydraulic platform and lowered into a private hangar. There’s a stretch limo waiting. It’s like a scene out of a Bond movie and, for a minute, I’m overcome by an overwhelming certainty Dad is going to swoop in and save me. That’s how it happens in the movies, and seeing as how my life’s been one big trope after the next since Mary first swept into the Über Dork, I’m thinking it’s not too much to hope for.

  I’m wheeled up to the limo. The driver is familiar. Where have I seen him before? Wait—this is another Dr. Seuss clone. Dang, how many of these guys are there? They must be running out of rhymes by now. I wouldn’t have thought a chauffeur hat, driving gloves, and different suit could make such a difference, but as I stare at him, it hits me it’s more than that. This guy’s doughier and older too. Oh, man. If they can be older or younger, fatter or skinnier, how could I possibly recognize them on the street?

  “He’s a talker,” says Zed, wheeling me up to the limo, where the driver has opened the door. “I’d leave the gag in if I were you.”

  The driver shrugs, and I’m wheeled around the open door.

  Come on, Dad. If you’re coming, now’s the time.

  Inside, purple lights line the ceiling and floor. Lots of floor space. There’s a bar, a TV… It reminds me of the party limos Kate used to rent back when we dated. I’m pitched face-first into the seat, and in my peripheral vision glimpse a swath of white fabric. I dig my shoulder into creaking leather, flex my back, sit up. I sway in my seat for a second as a wave of knockout-drug-induced dizziness swims through my vision. Ked and Zed climb in and take positions on my left and right. Across from me is a man in a white lab coat. Crow’s feet around his eyes, carries his weight in his belly. He’s scragglier than the other Dr. Seuss clones—but wait. Have I met this one before?

  “The name’s Fred,” he says, smiling.

  The oxygen in my lungs seems to vanish. This is Mikey’s lab tech! The one who administered the Zarathustra formula in the first place, back before I’d ever encountered a Dr. Seuss clone. Caleb had mentioned trying to figure out Mikey’s corporate mole problem. I guess I can put this down as problem solved?

  Ked and Zed grab my wrists. Fred leans forward and rolls up my sleeve. He dabs my skin with cotton. Ked ties a rubber cord around my arm.

  “Mrm! Mrm! Mrm!” I yell, twisting and thrashing as the reality of what’s about to happen crashes home. My wrists yank free. A length of tied-off cord snaps backward and slaps me in the face. Grappling arms jockey for position.

  “Told you,” says Zed. “Kid can’t shut up.”

  Grips clamp again on my wrists. Fred brings out the needle. The tip scratches my skin. My flailing elbow knocks it from his hands.

  “Dammit,” he says, snatching his hand away and scrambling for the syringe.

  My butt’s out of the
seat! Through the open limo door, the airplane hangar awaits—

  Fingers tangling in my hair. Head snaps back. Pain lances through my scalp. Ked and Zed wrap their legs around mine, squeeze, and lean their weight into my convulsions. A hand reaching for my throat. Through the gag, I bite down on a thumb.

  “Shit!” yells Zed.

  “Settle down, kid,” says Ked.

  Zed’s free hand mashes into my face. His fingers peel back my lips and scratch my gums as he tries to pry his thumb out of my teeth. Another hand closes on my throat, forces me back into the seat. My jaws spring open.

  “Goddammit,” mutters Zed, shaking his hand out.

  Someone new climbs into the limo. Black chauffeur outfit. I tense my neck, push forward—

  Head slams into the wall. Arm smooshing across my face. I twist—elbow breaks free, collides with someone’s jaw. Ked’s and Zed’s legs tighten around mine like boa constrictors.

  More clones piling in. Hands grappling over hands. It’s all backs and arms and eyeballs and nose hair. The limo rocks back and forth. Sharp shoulders dig into my chest. A sweaty palm shoves my forehead backward, slips off. My knee connects with something solid.

  “—friggin’ family jewels—”

  “—his ankle down—”

  “—all elbows and knees—”

  “—cake butt sex—”

  A hand squeezes my throat. I can barely breathe. My range to flail constricts. Fred’s wide-eyed face pops up like a prairie dog. He’s got the syringe. His bushy brows knit in a frown. The needle seems to approach my arm in slow motion, blocking out the entire world through its sheer inevitability. I concentrate all my strength into moving my left arm. An extra set of hands presses down. May as well be ten thousand pounds. Somebody’s armpits reek. I’m shaking, hot, panic-sweating. The needle pierces my skin, pushes deeper. My eyes widen. I watch, jerking in tiny bursts, helpless to stop it. The vial fills with red liquid—blood—my blood! They’re going to recreate Dad’s Zarathustra serum. They’re going to make Nostradamus more powerful than he already is.

  The needle slides out. My body goes limp. Panting. Roaring in my ears. Spots in my vision. The pressure on my neck, arms, chest, and legs eases. The tied cord comes off my arm. My head is swimming. I think I’m going to throw up. Someone’s hand shoves my face now that I’m no longer fighting.