Bright and early, Pudge Pot drags me out of bed and to the integration floor. They want me out of here bad. Before I know it, I’m prepped and ready, hooked up to a bazillion wires and doodads. The docs and nurses patiently explain everything about my body’s active hibernation and my mind’s electrical transfer, but I don’t listen. Last time, I was fascinated, pumped, ready for the great adventure. I couldn’t wait to see who I would be, where I would be. This time, I’m nervous. I’m putting my trust in a faceless entity. I know he’s real, but I’m still not sure he has my best interests at heart. No one is in the room. There’s not a sound monitor, so I go for it.
“You know trust isn’t really my strong suit,” I pray. “I’m stressin’ out. I don’t stress out because I rely on me, and I’m the best. But now I have to rely on you, and I don’t know you. I could use a little help here.” I hear a squeak as the procedure room door opens.
“How are you holding up, Mr. O’Toole?” I can’t see as my head is strapped down, but only one man in the whole building calls me by my name—Doc Hounddog.
“A little rattled, Doc.”
“That’s why I’m here. I want to oversee everything personally. Make sure there are no hiccups this time.”
“Pssht. It’s not that, Doc. I’m still worried about my friends.”
“These the friends that know my Friend?”
“Yep. I talked to him about ’em. I just…I ain’t used to trustin’ people, especially ones I can’t, you know, see or touch.”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “He’s never failed me.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“It’ll be a few more minutes, and you’ll be back to the twenty-first century.” The door shrieks, and he’s gone again.
“So how is this supposed to work between us?” I pray. “What am I? Your servant? ’Cause no one tells me what to do. What do you expect from me? The information on the chip all seems to agree on the concept of loving you and loving others. But what does that even mean? Love? I’m not exactly familiar with the concept. I’ve always viewed it as a weakness.”
“SO51399, inhale deeply and hold.” A feminine voice emits from an intercom. I inhale and breathe a memory of my mom. I’m about eight, and Dad had once again drunk up all the grocery money. Mom had managed to find some old bread in the back of the pantry. There were only a couple of slices. She scraped the remnants of jelly from the side of the jar and spread them over the stale slices and handed them to me. I wolfed one down greedily before realizing she didn’t have any.
“Here, Mommy,” I said, handing her the other piece.
“I’m not hungry, Smully,” she answered as she ruffled my hair.
“Exhale,” the voice continues. I start to get drowsy.
I’m back at the cop shop where I met Lydia. She had been crying, I thought she looked like a plague victim. She told me about selling her parents’ house. “In this market, we were very blessed to find a buyer quickly. I put the money aside for David’s college.” I remember thinking she was nuts. What twenty-one-year-old puts a huge chunk of change in savings—for someone else?
“SO51399, inhale deeply and hold,” the voice asks again. This time it sounds a little like Lydia.
A quote from Phraseology, Jargon, and Mores of Twenty-first Century Earth scrolls through my head: “Christianity’s foundation is that original sin and all subsequent sin separates man from God. In order to reconcile this separation, God sent His son Jesus Christ as a sacrifice to pay the punishment of said sin.”
“Exhale,” the voice says from far away.
“Sacrifice,” I mutter as my mind uncouples from my body. “Love means sacrifice.”
PART SIX
LOVE BREAKING THE RULES
My lids stand at attention. It’s dark, but my eyes make out shapes that can only be furniture. Whew, it’s not the pit. I click on a lamp and stumble out of bed, clinging onto the contents of my host’s stomach by sheer willpower, looking for something, anything that can give me my twenty. Unfortunately, my host doesn’t have a cell phone, calendar, or even loose piece of mail hanging around his neat as a pin bedroom.
“Curse you for being so orderly,” I mutter through clenched teeth. I spy the television remote and head for it when the burning chum rising in my throat refuses to back down any longer. I abandon my mission and dash to the bathroom. I don’t quite make it over the john before the bile makes its escape. Most of it lands in the desired location, but the floor will need mopping.
“Later.” That has to wait, as well as the usual examination of my pajamas. Where and When are far more important than Who in regard to my current host. I remain in the loo longer than I want to, but also don’t want to have to deal with any more gastric goo than necessary. After the churning has subsided, I beat it back to the TV remote. One quick push of the button and local news appears. WTLV, Jacksonville’s NBC affiliate. I do a little dance and wait for the date to crawl by at the bottom of the screen. When it does, my legs give way, and I fall to my knees in relief.
“You did it! I’m here. I’m actually here!” He did it. The Father somehow overrode Life Mod and sent me back to Jacksonville the day after I left it. I may have been back in the twenty-fourth a hair over five weeks, but here it’s been less than twelve hours. I look to the ceiling, “I’ve said it before. You’re kind of scary. I’m glad you’re on my side, ’cause I’d hate for you to be against me. What’s the plan? I really hadn’t thought past this point because, well no offense, I didn’t believe…” I wasn’t sure you were really there. I thought it was too good to be true. Every orphan dreams of a big, mighty Daddy who’ll come and adopt them, but we know it will never really happen. But you happened. “All this mushy stuff is wasting time. We need to rescue David. So, what’s the plan?” Several moments pass. No disembodied voices, no strangely apropos memories popping into my head, and no quotes from the chip in my brain make an appearance. Silence oozes across the room.
“Hello? You got anything to add here? ’Cause I could use the help.”
Nothing.
“Really? You’ve been Chatty Cathy for weeks, and at this critical juncture you choose to be silent.” I’m up and pacing now. The news anchors mumble in the background. I look up at the ceiling again and emphatically throw my hands up, but no great insight makes its way to me. “Fine. I get it. You say you’ll never leave, that you’re right there with me, but you’re not, are you? I can handle this myself like I do everything.”
I storm off into the bathroom because that’s where I always start my day, and it’s the only thing I can think of to do. In my huff, I forget about the present I left myself and step dead center in the vomit. It’s cold now and slightly viscous, clinging to my foot as I jerk it free.
“Perfect. Nose to the grindstone, Smullian. You can’t help David running around half-cocked.” I notice for the first time my host’s knees are not overly-crazy about bending. “Arthritis?” I grab a towel, handling my foot and then the floor. Then I check out what I’m wearing. Routine is good. Routine brings calm. Routine puts the body on autopilot and allows the mind to work unfettered. White t-shirt and cotton pajama pants. Modest but not Marvin-level propriety. That plus the knees means I must be an older guy. A quick exam of his hands confirms my hunch. They’re gnarled, but still have a few more miles to go. Rifling through his medicine cabinet reveals a modest amount of prescription bottles. “Bet he has one of those ‘days of the week’ pill boxes somewhere. Kitchen.” I read one of the labels. “Henry Brown. Strong baby boomer name.”
So far, no sweet concerned elderly woman has come knocking to see if I’m—Henry is—okay. I’ve certainly made enough ruckus to bring someone running even if she’d been asleep in the next room. Widower? I doubt he was a lifelong bachelor. Glacier blue eyes stare at me from the mirror. With silver hair atop square-jawed face, I see what Buddy Holly would have looked like if he had the chance to age. “Nope, this handsome guy was definitely not a bachelor.”
I step out of the bat
hroom and to the closet. A quick exam yields athletic suits, sedate Hawaiian shirts—I didn’t think it possible, but these are tasteful, yet still Florida—starched no less, and long sleeve button-ups with various subtle patterns. He’s got good taste for an old guy. A little more toned-down than Benny and me, but well-put together. I pick a Hawaiian with a palette of blues and put it on with some ironed jeans. Very modern Southern gentleman. While dressing, my mind drifts and the current problem comes tumbling out.
“I’ll just—I’ll just what? Call the tipline and tell them David is in the building where the fairies fight the mole people? Oh yeah, they’ll jump right on that one! That tip will just get shuffled to the bottom of the whackadoo file.” I pace the room instinctually studying the pictures on the wall and dresser top. Lots of Henry and the Missus. In all, his outgoing grin shines through. A double frame shows a young Buddy Holly looking kid with his even younger-looking bride. The adjacent frame pictures them much later. Fiftieth anniversary. Long time. He must miss her to have all these pictures out. No kids. Just him and Mrs. Smiley. I wonder if it was choice or nature. I rifle through the assortment of things on his bedside table. Hearing aids. Too much rock n roll, Smiley? Landline phone with charger base. He’s showing his age. A Robert Parker novel. A simple and direct guy. No fluff for him. I wonder if he’s ex-military? A large-print Bible. I’m just delaying the inevitable.
“I have to talk to Lydia.” Normally, I’d love any excuse to talk to her, and, frankly, my lizard brain wants to see her and her body again, but this? “How am I supposed to bring this up? ‘So hey, you don’t know me, but I need you to take me to the Fairy Kingdom because the mole people are about to make Davey a casualty of war.’ That’ll have the same effect as the call to the tipline.” I slump backwards onto the bed, puff my cheeks, and blow out the air, Burnsey-style. “Problem 1: Get Lydia to believe me. Can’t be a phone call. She’ll hang up before I get four words out of my mouth. If I have any chance it needs be face-to-face. Problem 2: I’d have to skip Mr. Smiley’s job.” I glance back at the ceiling. “Hello? A move like that could get me violated in Life Mod. I just got back thirty days; I don’t want to lose them again.” The words feel weak coming out of my mouth. I press on. “If I miss work, can you guarantee I won’t get caught?” The silence is louder than his voice was the first time he uttered Father to the Fatherless. “I barely know the kid. Why should I risk more time for him? Huh?” Again silence. “Besides, what if I do call into his work, what good would it do? What am I supposed to say to Lydia? ‘Hello, I’m from the future, and I know where your brother is. Well, you know where your brother is. Come with me to the mole people.’ You know what that will get this guy—Baker Acted. A nice 72 hours in a padded cell. You know what it will get this pretty boy? Hard Time! ‘Any act which exposes the integrity of Life Modification Therapy will render the candidate’s therapy null and void. Said candidate will be returned to his body for alternative punishment.’ Telling Lydia the truth is a big no-no. Are you listening to me? Hard Time. You think I should risk everything for a twerp who couldn’t tell he was being played? Well, forget it. Uh, uh. No way. He deserved it.”
The pregnant silence expands, filling the room. When I was a kid and my mom wanted me to fess up about something, she would stand and stare at me, arms crossed, head tilted, mouth closed. Her eyes would drill into me, exposing the truth. The silence created a vacuum, waiting to be occupied. Before I knew it, the confession would rush out of my mouth, filling the void. I’m eight again, but the truth is far more important than the candy I bought with money I pilfered from her purse. I sit up, hands dangling between my knees.
“He doesn’t deserve it. And he’s not a twerp. He’s a scared kid, who needs help. I can’t stand the thought of him down there another second. I’ll do it. Are you happy? It seems like you are asking too much. I’m risking everything—my life for all intents and purposes—for someone else I barely know. Violating Life Mod on this scale will get me ‘alternative punishment’ for who knows how long.” I chuckle. “Well, you know. Don’t you?” My eyes fall on the large-print Bible. I reach out and flip it open, scanning the table of contents. “But that’s the point isn’t it? Love is sacrifice.”
Whining over, I head downstairs to find out Mr. Smiley’s job and call in sick. On the way, I notice a picture of him in uniform with a sizable number of ribbons on his chest. Army. I was right. I pat myself on the back. “You are the best, even under extreme stress.”
Hanging on the back of a kitchen chair is a bright green apron with a nametag. “Hello, my name is Hank. How can I help you?” it reads. He works at the local grocery.
“By the size of this place, he doesn’t need the money,” I mutter to myself as I scroll through his phone looking for the number. “Nah. A guy called Hank who smiles that big is a social creature. He works to get out of the house. I bet the customers love him.” I press the appropriate number and the other end rings. A pleasant conversant system leads me to the customer service desk. After seven thousand more rings—I’m on a timetable, people—someone picks up.
“This is Hank,” I pause, realizing that in my rush I didn’t get his last name. Bad tradecraft.
“Hank! How are you today?” Yep, Mr. Social. Everyone loves him.
“Actually, not good. I’ve got a stomach bug or something. I can’t come in today.”
“Oh no! You take care of yourself. Drink plenty of fluids,” the peppy voice on the phone recommends.
“I will. Thanks.” I hang up the phone.
“I’ve done it. I’ve officially violated Life Mod. Now time to go expose it to Lydia and possibly get thrown in a deep, dark pit of my own forever. Go big or go home, Smullian my boy.”
In the garage, I find a very fine Cherokee. SUVs aren’t usually my thing, but I have to give Hank credit where credit is due. This is a splendid vehicle, impeccably kept. Not even a dead bug dare linger on the shiny white paint. The inside sees a vacuum and polish at least once a week. This baby deserves a longer perusal, but I’m on a deadline. Luckily, Hankster outfitted his Jeep with all the best toys, and I punch Lydia’s address into the dashboard GPS. No comment about me knowing her address off the top of my head. Directions appear, and I’m surprised, although I shouldn’t be at this point, to find she lives a mere five minutes away. I glance up. “Well, Silent Bob, you’ve amazed me again. And that’s really hard to do.”
When I put the car in gear, the radio pops on. The DJ is talking. “My pastor, Jason, said something really interesting this weekend. He said, ‘When you’re taking a test, the teacher is silent, but he’s still in the room.’ How many times have we said, ‘I can’t hear God! He’s abandoned me!’ But that’s not the case at all. He’s right there. Blows my mind.” I punch the knob.
“Testing? Is that what’s going on here? I’m being tested? Okay, I’ve heard you do that kind of thing. But I’ve only been your servant, follower, whatever, for a couple days. Isn’t it a little early for a test? Shouldn’t I have some more time under my belt? Not that I’m criticizing or anything.”
“In 100 feet, turn left,” a crisp, charming, British voice commands.
“Okay baby, I’m turning.” I grin. “I guess some students are so superior, you put them on the advanced track.” One more turn and boom! I’m at her modest apartment complex. I roll past the sad playground and pull into a parking space at her building.
II
“I could still use some support in this conversation,” I say. I’ve spent all my life getting people to believe outrageous lies, but here I am about to pull out all my powers to get her to believe an outrageous truth. 1) Hook her with a known fact. 2) Details add validity. 3) Don’t leave room for objection.
I stand outside her door. About a thousand different emotions threaten to burst me open and turn me inside out. Not to mention all, I mean ALL, of the emotions surrounding what I’m about to do. Added to that are my very confusing feelings about Lydia. Women have been commodities to me, and I’ve been a c
ommodity to them. But this woman…I do a Burnsey inhale, exhale, and knock on the door.
She opens it immediately. She doesn’t look any different than she has any other day, but her radiance overwhelms me. For a moment, I can’t speak, which is good because she does. “Hank? What are you doing here?”
Of course, she knows Hank. Everyone the Father has sent me to has known Lydia and David in some way. I should have thought of that. Genius, actually, she will be more apt to take all this weirdness from someone she already knows, likes, and trusts. The Father really does know what he’s doing.
“Um, this is going to sound really weird. But I know where David is. Well, you know where David is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s trapped in one of those buildings where you guys pretend the fairies and mole people live.”
Her eyes track up and left. She’s knows what I’m talking about. Then her brows narrow. “How do you know this?”
I want so badly to just say “God told me,” but that’s not right. He wants me to lay it on the line.
“This is the weird part. As if that wasn’t weird enough. I’m from the future. We brain-hitch. Put our minds in people in the time we want to go to.” She is staring at me hard. I rush on. “Monday I was in Marvin Shoemacher, your—”
“My accountant,” she mutters.
“Yeah, you saw him at the cop shop, remember. His car was stolen. Anyway, Tuesday I was Benigno, the cop. Wednesday, I was Burnsey, the teacher. We searched all over. Hung up flyers.”
Her eyes are fixed on me. “Yeah, we did. Have you been following me? Are you a stalker? Are you involved in what happened to David?” She whirls around and runs to the door. “I’m calling the detectives.”
“Wait. Wait.” I scramble after her, which is tough with the cane. It’s a miracle I don’t trip. I slam Hank’s gnarled hand on the door, keeping it from closing. “Al’s pizza—”
Lost in the System Page 18