Maker Messiah

by Ed Miracle

  Mrs. Johnson nodded. General shrugged.

  “You going to the City?” Charlene asked.

  “No, to Pleasanton. And we gotta leave now. C’mon, Home Boy.” Marcy strode away and called over her shoulder, “Thank you, Uncle. Thank you, Auntie.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Everett managed.

  FIVE

  Following Marcy to her car made his day. Men have killed for much less than the sway of Marcy’s hips. She made him sit in the back seat with the cameras while she drove.

  “We start as soon as we get there,” she said. “So get familiar with the tools and get ready.”

  He did what she said and asked no questions, which seemed to disturb her, but he was enjoying himself. Not just his sexy new companion and her gadgets, but suddenly everything about everything. He was having a peak moment in the back of a white Mitsubishi as it shredded the speed limit on a brightening day, headed for something he’d never done. And a wild, dark goddess was leading his way.

  He probed a coffee mug that turned out to be a satellite uplink and fondled the cameras. He tested each one, checked their responses. Then he donned the battery harness and powered-up a Steadicam. He could do this.

  Marcy passed him a news printout.

  “Here’s our subject. We met last year at Mills. That’s a college. Our little piece went to an internet site, where the nationals picked it up, and that was my break into mainstream video journalism. It’s been a year and a half, and she still remembers me. Can you believe it?”

  On the page, a striking fortyish woman in a glittery gown was emerging from a limo on the arm of a tuxedo. The caption read “Karen Lavery, Powerpods Company CEO, and sponsor of last year’s Black and White Ball, arrives at Davies Symphony Hall with activist attorney Terrance Quinn.”

  Marcy powered through the sparse traffic, retracing Everett’s commute, shooting up and then down the East Bay hills to arrive at Stoneridge Mall in Pleasanton. But Ms. Lavery was not at the juice bar near the west entrance as expected. Marcy phoned and left a message, but they had missed her. Cradling his Steadicam and shifting in the clunky harness, Everett was drawing glances from the other patrons, as if his presence were sucking sugar out of their drinks. Marcy drummed her red-lacquered nails on the table.

  “Maybe they grabbed her already.”

  Grabbed? He sipped a strawberry smoothie as Marcy made another call. She looked terrific through the viewfinder.

  Behind them, a taut pair of Lycra shorts clacked across the tiles on cyclist’s shoes and stopped at their booth. A sunny ponytail sprouted from the girl’s bicycle helmet, and Everett hoped she would smile because she looked familiar.

  “Ms. Johnson?”

  Marcy squelched her Cambiar. “I’m Marcy Johnson.”

  “I’m Tiffany.” No smile. “Come with me.”

  They followed her at a vigorous pace. Outside, Ms. Grim Face hesitated.

  “Where’s your car?”

  Marcy pointed. “That row. Shall we follow you?”

  “I’m riding with you.”

  “There’s no room for your bike.”

  “Then I’ll leave it.” The girl shrugged. “I have another one—identical actually.”

  Tiffany sat in front with Marcy and directed them south from the mall into the sheltered community of Castlewood. Big trees and fancy houses, backed against a tortuous golf course. Lots of pools and security cameras. Old money. Tiffany told Marcy to skip the manned gate, to continue to a blind curve in a secluded canyon, where she told her to stop. Marcy parked, and they got out.

  “This way.”

  Tiffany led them downhill, through stiff grass, along a deer trail that wended among acacia, madrone, and manzanita. When a thicket of rosemary appeared at the base of a redwood fence, she produced a Cambiar and removed her cycling helmet.

  That’s where Everett had seen her, in Philip Machen’s video. Tiffany Lavery was the cheerleader in the perky yellow blouse who narrated the introduction. She tossed her helmet over the fence and spoke briefly to her phone. Then she faced Everett and indicated the fence.

  “Give us a boost.”

  Her presumption annoyed him.

  “Please?” For the first time, she met his eyes.

  Much better. He planted his feet and squatted, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. When she stepped into his hands, he launched her, almost too high. At the top, she balanced on the fence, selected a spot on the other side, and hopped over.

  “Now Ms. Johnson.”

  Marcy put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t drop me, Everett.”

  He beamed with the rush of their sudden proximity.

  After Tiffany’s graceful ascent, Marcy’s was awkward, but she wobbled across and landed without injury. Everett considered heaving his equipment over first but chose to grunt his way across. He landed on a bed of shredded bark and lodged a splinter in his thumb. Tiffany let him recover before leading them across a perfect lawn to a white, Colonial-style house. Without hesitation, she trampled a copse of agapanthus beneath an open window.

  Inside, a middle-aged woman—the auburn beauty from the gossip photo—helped them over the sill and onto their feet, amid a floral oasis. Bookcases faced the windows behind scores of flowers arranged in crystal vases.

  “Marcy, thank you for coming,” the woman said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “This is Everett,” Marcy said as she brushed herself. “My cameraman.”

  In a single glance, Ms. Lavery absorbed everything about him, and he was sure he would not forget her either. For the second time today, he restarted his brain. Then he set the satellite uplink on the window sill and switched it on. Her matriarchal gaze followed this with approval. When he brought the camera up to her face, she bestowed on him a smile that confirmed what he already knew: she owned him.

  “You can see them on our security screens,” she told Marcy. “We are surrounded.”

  Ms. Lavery led them under a staircase to a vaulted entry that soared three stories above a white terrazzo floor. She touched one of six images on a flat screen, expanding the view of her front porch, where a pale hand zoomed at them, many times larger than life. A door chime accompanied the visual intrusion. Ms. Lavery touched her screen.

  “Who are you? What do you want?

  A badge and photo ID filled the display.

  “Ms. Lavery? I’m Les Parker, FBI. I believe we spoke earlier.”

  The badge withdrew and was replaced by a Hollywood-handsome face screwed into a business suit. Behind him wavered an orange-haired frizz who could not possibly be his wife.

  Ms. Lavery plucked a Cambiar from her pocket and keyed the number scribbled on her palm.

  The man on the porch put a cellphone to his ear. “Parker,” he said. “I assure you, Ms. Lavery, Nedra and I have not come to arrest you. However, we would like to chat a bit regarding Mr. Machen, if you would kindly grant us a few minutes of your time.”

  Ms. Lavery chained the door. Behind her, Everett bounded up the stairway and charged to the second-floor landing. The women gaped as if he’d lost his mind. He ignored Marcy’s frantic waves and wedged a pocket camera into the banister, angled it at the entry below as Ms. Lavery opened the door against its chain.

  “Agent Parker,” she said. “I’ve no idea where Mr. Machen might be, and frankly I don’t care.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it, Ms. Lavery? Under the circumstances, I mean. You do know a few things that might help us though, don’t you? Mr. Machen’s habits, his acquaintances, where he vacations, etcetera? A few details that might be of service to your country? May we come in and speak more directly?” His cologne had already entered.

  Everett rushed down from the stairs, then backed slowly with his Steadicam, framing Ms. Lavery at the door.

  “What about that SWAT team around the corner?” she said.

  “I’m afraid I cannot speak for those gentlemen.” Parker shrugged his apology.

  “Can you keep them away while we talk?”


  Everett braced himself against the opposite wall. Behind Agent Parker, The Frizz shook her head and thrust a hand into her purse, not from the top but the rear, like a holster.

  “I doubt we can prevail upon their generosity,” Parker said.

  “Yes or no, Parker?” Ms. Lavery threw her weight against the door and bolted it.

  The face on the screen winced and withdrew. Then a blur smashed the door. Ms. Lavery staggered backward into Marcy, who pulled Tiffany between them.

  A muffled count: two, three. Bang! The door splintered.

  “Uplink,” Marcy shouted. “Switch to the uplink, Everett.”

  “Already did,” he yelled. He framed the women in his viewfinder.

  “This is Marcy Johnson, and I am with Karen Lavery, owner of Powerpods Company, at her home in Pleasanton, California. Law enforcement officers have surrounded the house. No doubt they are seeking answers to the same questions we would like to ask. Ms. Lavery, what do you know about these Maker machines and when did you know it?”

  The door erupted again, straining the bolt.

  “Nothing,” said Ms. Lavery. “I knew nothing. He tricked us too. Philip Machen used my company and my employees to deceive the world. He used us. He betrayed us.”

  The door slammed wide open. A blur flew in and exploded, dazzling everyone. Its concussion broke their eardrums. Through the shock and the smoke charged a phalanx of black-clad warriors, each brandishing a machine gun and shouting the same angry command.

  “Down! Get down!”

  The women raised their hands and huddled at the credenza where each of them was forced to kneel before having her face shoved to the floor.

  “Press,” Marcy called. “I’m a report—oof.”

  Everett braced himself, capturing the action until a rifle butt slammed his neck and his camera spiraled away. Sliding down the wall, he covered his face and curled into a ball. Metallic agony cinched one wrist, twisted it, and latched to the other. Then his assailant heaved him onto his face.

  Radios crackled and laser dots zoomed. Everett rolled to his side to witness as much as possible. The women shrieked as rough hands pinned them and bound their wrists in steel. Two-man squads stomped through the house, shouting “Police!” and “Clear!”

  The entry teams ignored his balcony camera until the women were dragged on their knees to separate rooms. When a raider spotted Everett’s little Sony, he booted it from the landing and followed it down to the floor. Six feet from Everett’s face, he stomped it to pieces.

  SIX

  Oakland, California. Still Monday, April 20

  Day Three

  The Feds held Everett in a windowless room in downtown Oakland and questioned him. Where is Philip Machen? How do you know him? What do you do for him? Who does he work for? Why is he doing this? Why are you protecting him? Tell us his habits, his friends, his politics, his religion, his sexual preferences. Same questions about Ms. Lavery. Everett repeated himself over and over while they insisted he was lying. For two hours, they pounced on every hesitation, every apparent inconsistency. Marcy’s voice sounded once from the hall, but he saw only his captors. There was no time to think or feel anything but his impotence, his isolation, and his throbbing neck.

  They examined his driving and pilot licenses, his judgment decree from San Francisco Superior Court, and a letter from the Western Regional Director, U.S. Homeland Security Department.

  Agent Parker wrinkled his official nose. “You say?”

  “Everything is there.” Everett glanced to a vacant corner, wishing he had brought that article from the East Bay Times. About the smart aleck pot-smoker getting busted at the airport BART Station with a plane ticket and a five-inch melon knife in his boot. Pot Boy thought it was cute to give a false name, but data from Homeland Security arrests were widely shared, and other jurisdictions soon obtained the original posting for Everett A. Aboud, arrested under the influence of drugs and in possession of a deadly weapon, at San Francisco International Airport.

  “Stolen ID, huh?”

  Apparently, Federal databases were up-to-date because Parker returned Everett’s papers and did not rearrest him for his old “crimes.” The bad news was, those databases now contained a new record, with new fingerprints, a new photo, and a fresh DNA swipe bearing his name. Once again, he was a Federal person of interest.

  Parker and the orange-haired woman grilled him until they released him, abruptly, at 6:00 p.m. Downstairs in the lobby, his uniformed escort said he could make a phone call. He could summon Bobby or General Johnson to come for him, or he could hire a cab. But he didn’t want a ride, and he was sick of explaining. He shook the tension from his arms and shoulders and headed out the enormous brass door.

  Free at last on a chilly sidewalk, he pulled the neck of his Shoes-for-You T-shirt askew and hurried eastward. As a breeze invigorates a fire, the cold air enraged him. He needed to get away and run off his resentment, though running would draw suspicion, maybe another cop, so he walked fast. No crime in walking, last he heard.

  But this time it was not his stolen identity or his Arab name. This was trouble of his own making, the full consequences of which might not arrive for weeks. Would he ever work in an airline cockpit? Maybe Bobby was right. Maybe he should indenture himself to the military, sell himself for six years for the privilege of flying heavy metal. If he didn’t wash out, he could start over, build his career, and repay his father. If they let him.

  People on the street were rushing past him, ant-like, chasing bits of personal business. Don’t they realize something is wrong? How do I know this while they don’t?

  When he reached Broadway, the cold began to bite. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Shoes-for-You, muscles knotted by twitches and shivers. Upstairs, a golden light glowed from the windows. Though his motorcycle beckoned from across the boulevard, he would freeze without his helmet and leathers.

  General answered the delivery door with a baseball bat cocked over his shoulder. He recognized his employee and lowered the bat.

  “You two are shit magnets, did you know that?”

  “Is she here?”

  “You look bad, son. How about some dinner?”

  “Is she okay? I need to get my stuff.”

  General admitted him, bolted the door, and led him upstairs into a warm and aromatic kitchen.

  “Look what the kitty left at the door.”

  Charlene and Marcy looked up from half-eaten bowls of stew, plates of dark bread. They were spoon-feeding an ancient man who wore a bath towel for a bib. This would be Daddy, General’s father.

  “We thought they kept you,” Marcy said.

  “Must be a limit for trout and Lebanese-Americans. They threw me back.”

  Charlene quizzed Marcy. “Don’t you think he looks like Johnny Mathis?”

  “Too young. Too white.” Marcy’s grin faded. “We were kneecapped, kiddo. The national media refused our clips and went with the pool footage—Ms. Lavery strolling peacefully to a nice government car, wearing those comfy handcuffs, just your routine, everyday perp-walk.”

  Everett rubbed his arms.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Aboud.” General pretended to announce a menu. “Tonight we offer a lovely two-dollar Merlot to compliment Charlene’s priceless rainbow stew.”

  “Yes, thank you. Two gallons of each, please.” He sat across from Marcy, who focused her pique on the flat-screen behind the table, a news webcast.

  “Three sites bought our feed,” she said, “but that didn’t replace my equipment. The Feds are keeping it, for whatever reason. So I’m grounded, and nobody cares what happened today. Ms. Lavery went to jail without a statement, and the world is safe again, except for Philip Machen.”

  “What about the girl?” Everett said.

  “Tiffany? I don’t know. Why would they keep her?”

  General set a tumbler before his guest and filled it with red wine.

  “I was kidding,” Everett said.

  “We’d better ge
t ourselves one of those Maker machines, Charlene. Everett’s thirsty.”

  Marcy laughed but cut it short.

  “We’re waiting for a news conference,” she said. She leaned on her elbows, which brought her face into the light. “You did some fine work this afternoon, Everett. That second camera kept us in the game, you know? And feeding it to the uplink from the beginning—that was pretty sharp. For a new guy.”

  “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Hey, I sold a few clips. So thanks, I’m glad you came along.”

  “Me, too.”

  She spied the bruise on his neck. “But not too glad, huh?”

  He gazed into her velvet-brown eyes. Be my nurse.

  General brought a bowl of stew and a spoon.

  Everett yawned. “I’m just tired of being arrested all the time, that’s all.”

  Three faces turned.

  Oops. He explained between mouthfuls. By the time the news conference started, the stew and half the wine had disappeared, and Marcy turned up the volume.

  “Live from Washington, D.C., here is Attorney General Nicholas T. Brayley.”

  A tumult of heads and shoulders bobbed at the foot of a tiny stage. Cameras snapped as the crowd jostled against a cordon of dark uniforms. The Attorney General, whose sour expression drew into a scowl, labored to the dais. His bald head and ruddy complexion glistened.

  “I have just briefed President Washburn and Vice President Fletcher about the unprecedented and illegal conversion of Powerpods, now flooding the world with counterfeit.

  “Although our investigations are just beginning I have reported to the president that Mr. Philip Machen, and three persons in his employ have deliberately launched an economic Trojan horse against the currency of the United States, as well as against other national currencies.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “This financial terrorism is nothing short of a direct assault on our economic recovery. At this time we believe it is not, I repeat not, sponsored by any known terrorist group or foreign power. However, we will continue to investigate any links between Mr. Machen or his confederates and known criminals and extremists.