Using his favorite search engine, he ran the name, and bingo. This had to be where she worked, or at least where she would eventually work. The company was a major player in the research and development sector of plants for medicinal use. It stood to reason that a company like this would wholeheartedly back a project like the one Dharma would be known for.
One little detail stood out more than the others. Avient Pharmaceuticals welcomes co-sponsor investing in their research division. His smiled at his golden ticket. He’d found his way in.
11
For the third time that day, Malcolm called his lawyer.
“This is becoming a habit," Omar said in lieu of a hello.
"Tell me about it. Listen, I need to get involved with the research and development branch at a company called Avient Pharmaceuticals. Free access, complete tour, the works. They welcome investment. Do you think if the companies I represent were interested in investing, I could get that kind of access?"
Omar laughed, no doubt thinking of his various non-existent front companies. "Perhaps if the companies that wanted to invest were not competitors and could give the company some sort of advantage. Of course, the investment would have to be significant."
"Money won't be an issue. You think you could also get the HR files on one of the employees?" The dream thieves had plenty of funds if the investment in the company tapped him out, but he doubted it would. He’d had so many years to accumulate wealth.
“It can be arranged for my usual fee in addition to the monthly retainer."
Malcolm wanted to argue. The dream thieves’ lawyers were paid very handsomely, but they always wanted more, no matter the decade.
"Whatever. Get it done. I want to be in the building within a day. Two at the max."
"I'll see what I can do."
The call disconnected. He lost himself learning everything he could about Avient Pharmaceuticals: who founded the company, its current and past projects, the public records of finances and taxes. He spent an hour worrying if investing money would lead to the company's ability to fund Dr. Knight’s project. He had seen too many possible realities not to appreciate the fine ironies of cause and effect, but he dismissed the idea. Time, as far as he knew, was linear, constantly moving forward. Dream thieves could see the possible roads the future could take, prevent some wrong turns, but never change the past. If he hadn't missed half the target, nothing would have brought him to do this.
His research finished, now he had to hurry up and wait. He smiled at his friend Juan’s saying.
At just after two in the morning he ran out of things to do. He climbed in the bed and let sleep take him. At nine-thirty a.m. the next morning, Malcolm stretched and passed the mirror, catching sight of the shoulder-length wavy brown hair that was framing his face and showcasing his beard. His hair had been down the day he transported into Dharma's bedroom. She could recognize him.
He snatched his coat and keys and left the room with a new purpose. As he cruised down Roosevelt, he hit the voice control button on the car’s computer system and asked his phone for directions. He plotted the address then cranked up the radio. Thirty minutes later, he pulled into 18/8 Fine Men’s Salon, an upscale haircut place in the Yorktown Shopping Center. Malcolm never noticed much difference between a fancy salon and the mom-and-pop barber shops, but he thought the high-end place might be able to pull off the modern-day sophisticated business man look. For once, he actually had to look like a rich man.
He opened the door, missing the chime of a bell—old charm he loved. Inside, the double glass doors shone without the faintest of fingerprints, and nothing but a large contemporary piece of art ordained the walls. He stepped through another set of immaculately clean doors into the main waiting area. He never understood the purpose of these empty sections when entering buildings. Several years back, one of his geeky sci-fi friends had deemed them decompression zones. He waited in front of a sleek black check-in desk, assessing the huge marble floors and pillars and a massive crystal chandelier. A beautiful young woman with lush thick black hair, bright blue eyes, and red pouty lips looked up from the desk as soon as he entered. The smile she gave him led him to believe that he had made her day by walking into the door.
“Welcome to 18/8 Men’s Salon. Do you have an appointment?”
Shit. He forgot about things like appointments. “Um, no. Will that be a problem?”
“Hmm.” She turned her attention to the computer, clacking away. He approached the counter, towering above her. She wore a black business suit with a pencil skirt and six-inch heels. It was a bit much for working in a barber shop, in his opinion. “Actually, sir, we’ve had a cancellation. Would you mind waiting about thirty minutes?”
“Sure. No problem at all.”
“Wonderful. Your name, sir?”
He gave his new alias, Barnaby Hart, and she entered him into the computer. She walked around the counter and escorted him to a private waiting area that was blocked off as if the people who visited here didn’t want anyone to know. Seriously? Everyone gets a haircut.
The waiting room had a flat screen TV with the remote on a sleek, modern gray table, and their chairs looked more like something you’d see on a spaceship than a waiting area. The chair poked him in the back and must have been picked for some silly style rather than any thought of comfort. Instead of the usual assortment of hairstyle magazines, this place had every business journal and magazine on the East Coast.
His cell rang. Hoping it was Omar, he snatched it out of his pocket. Debbie’s name displayed on the screen. Mouth dry, he stared at the phone. Should he slide the ignore tab? His curiosity won out in the end. “Hello Debbie.”
“Malcolm!” She sounded breathless. “Thank goodness. Are you okay?”
Clearing his throat and checking the clock on the wall, he said, “What do you want?”
“I, uh…I was worried about you.”
He stood up, pacing the room as hot rage filled him. “Yeah, so worried about me that you were going to have them lock me up.”
“Boss man, you were talking crazy. I saw your apartment.”
“First of all, I’m not your boss, not anymore. Second of all, you also saw the letter opener.”
“That’s not fair.” The sounds of cars rushing by came through the cell, but only for a second as if someone had opened the door to the outside. “I’ve seen Siegfried and Roy.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Sleight of hand. That’s all it was. You’re right. It’s all a big joke, or I’m a crazy, raging, alcoholic. You’re better off without me. I’ve left the city.” He added as he heard the distinct noises of walkie-talkies. The cops were probably at Eye of the Beholder. “Tell your cop friends to stop trying to trace my phone, it’s untraceable.” He hoped that was true since she was the one who got his replacement.
“Malcolm, stop. You’re being paranoid. Tell me where you are. I’m going to come and get you. Then we’ll get you the help that you need. Let me help you, and things can go back the way they used to be. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” He laughed bitterly as the attendant opened the door.
“Barnaby, are you ready?”
He held up his index finger and mouthed. “Be right there.” The woman left, and he continued, “How am I supposed to trust you when you don’t trust me? I confessed something to you that I haven’t confessed in ten lifetimes, and instead of believing me, you turn me in and dismiss me. Trust indeed. Eye of the Beholder will be put up for sale within the next day or two. I’m already out of the state and will be leaving the country soon. Goodbye Miss Anderson!”
“Malcolm, wait!” she shouted as he disconnected.
12
Malcolm punched the keys to put the phone on silent and shoved it in his pocket. He left the little room and found the attendant. She escorted him to another area in the back. This time, it opened up to a place that looked more like a fancy salon with sleek chairs, black sinks, and little counters with glass jars of combs in some od
d green liquid. Hand-held hairdryers and curling irons were stuck in small pockets beneath the counters. Those weird dryer chairs that made him feel like he had an upside-down fishbowl on his head had been positioned in the back. He spotted hair dyes and thousands of white towels through a tiny door in the very back. The attendant led him to one of the few empty chairs. A small guy with brown, flat hair smiled when he approached. He held out his hand. “Hello, Mr. Hart. I’m Alex, and it would be my pleasure to serve you today.”
They shook hands, the man’s drowning in Malcolm’s. The attendant smiled, patting his shoulder. “You’re in good hands.”
The attendant disappeared back to the front as Alex motioned for him to sit in his black leather chair. As soon as his butt hit the chair, Alex’s hands slid all over Malcolm’s head, already using a comb to brush it out. “What are we looking to do today?”
He relayed what he had in mind. Alex shook his head, eying the long locks. Not every man could pull off longer hair, but Malcolm had always been partial to it. This century, most men kept their hair short, but in the past, there had been periods when long hair was popular, but lice or nits infected everyone from the poor to the rich, forcing everyone to have bald heads and wear wigs. Alex sighed again. “Such a pity. Very well then.”
Alex worked his magic while Malcolm sat in the chair, trying his very best not to think and not to pay attention to the constant humming alarm. He thought the tiny alarm might’ve gotten the faintest bit louder since he missed half the target, but perhaps he was imagining it. It took an hour to cut and color his hair and shave his beard. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he had to give Alex credit. The cut and color was worth the small fortune it took. He looked completely different. Now he needed the clothes to match. Back in the car, he searched for a man’s clothing store and set off.
Ten minutes later, he made light work of ordering several suits in an upscale store. Most of his purchases had to be tailored, which would be done in–house. He dropped another small fortune to get one suit done while he waited so he would have it for tomorrow. An Armani suit, pinstripe pants and jacket, starched white shirt, silk tie, leather shoes, and a pair of diamond cuff links completed the outfit. When he had to visit the Cave of Scrolls, he picked outfits like this because he wanted to look nice. In this century, he favored jeans and polo shirts most of the time, but he missed robes from prior centuries.
He’d thought about taking up carpenter pants, though, especially in the spring and summer months, since stealing the pair from the Knight’s neighbors. Those would be so much easier than always carrying his jacket with him. He’d pick those up later, somewhere cheap, like Walmart.
At ten until noon, he left the clothing store. He checked his phone: four missed calls from Debbie, one from Omar, and one from Stephanie.
He called Stephanie first and filled her in. “Any of the others find anything?”
“A few references, but Caelieus was the most interesting thing.”
“Has he been found?”
A siren sounded in the distance as he maneuvered in and out of traffic, not knowing where to go. He should go back to the hotel, but he didn’t want to sit there and do nothing.
“No word yet, but I managed to decode some of his last target’s file. His report said his target would win the Nobel Prize in Physiology/Medicine, along with another person, an American woman. He didn’t catch her name though.”
He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. “No way! That can’t be a coincidence?”
“I don’t know. We can’t find him to clarify. He’s gone off the grid. Seems he took the rental car and your suitcase. It’s hard to tell if he stayed in the hotel or not.”
“Wait, so we still don’t know where he is?” This was unbelievable. Caelieus’s target and his missed target could have won the same prize. Maybe they’d work on it together. He searched hard through the tangled bits of memory to see if he could recall another name on the prize when he’d glimpsed it, but the memories slithered away like smoke in the wind. The longer from the time the memories had entered his mind, the further they slipped away. “Is he still on the island?”
“We don’t think so. The room was empty when we asked the hotel manager to check in. Like nothing, no personal belongings, no trash and two used towels. The rental car had been returned at the airport. We had the car searched but found nothing. One of the reasons I called was to see if you had any ID’s in your suitcase. We could set up traces and see if we get a hit on one of the aliases. Figure out where he or she has gone.”
Malcolm, still flabbergasted, rattled off the names he could remember, which wasn’t many.
“Thank you. I’ll set up the searches, see what we can find. I’ve got Lysander on the trail with Tiaret and Lother on standby. You shouldn’t have gone alone. I won’t be making that mistake again. Nimue has suggested that from now on, we live in pairs.”
“Might not be a bad idea until this crisis is over. But we’ve got an odd number since you can’t leave.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
After a sharp intake of breath, she said, “Yes, well. My term as Librarian will not be forever.”
“You know what I meant. The Librarian can’t leave, no matter who it is. That leaves us with eleven. Someone either has to be alone or three together.”
“I know, but someone could live here.” She snapped the word like an accusation. “Perhaps it will only be temporary until this resolves. Then we can return to the old ways. Until then I’m going to send one of us to you. In case you need help.”
He swallowed. “No, don’t. You and I will be the lone wolves for now. Grant me access to Caelieus’s last file. I want to review it again and see if his target and mine are linked. It seems like a very strange coincidence that two targets so close together both involve winning a Nobel Prize.”
The clacking of keys rang out over the phone. Each clack was like an angry slap. “Done. But one more screw up, Gabriel, and I’ll send one of us there so fast it’ll make your head spin.” The connection ended. It was the closest she had ever gotten to yelling at him, but with the power of the Librarian, the reprimand stung, causing him physical pain thousands of miles away just through a phone.
Malcolm never really knew what prompted him to press the voicemail button that night, perhaps he wanted to further punish himself, or maybe it was out of sheer curiosity. Or maybe, despite everything, he wanted to hear Debbie’s voice again.
“Malcolm don’t do this. Call me back. Please.” This message came immediately after they’d hung up.
Thirty minutes later. “Please don’t end things like this. I’m sorry. I just…I, uhhh, just call okay?”
She left another voicemail fifteen minutes ago, and surely the cops were gone by then. “You were right. I should have listened to you. Trusted you,” she sobbed. “I kissed you that night, and you pushed me away.” There was a break filled with quiet breathing. “Then when you showed up the way you did and the things you told me, I figured the only reason you would act like you cared about me was because you were crazy or drunk or something. I didn’t think I was good enough for you. Still don’t.” Malcolm heard another snob and sniffle. “I love you, boss man. I’m sorry, and I don’t want to never see you again. I was wrong. I called the judge, told him to take back the involuntary commitment. Don’t leave. Come home. Or at least let me tell you goodbye. Please.” The message ended as if the time ran out. He felt raw inside. He almost called her back when the next message began playing.
“Hey, it’s Omar. Hope you don’t have any plans for tomorrow because we have a meeting at nine-thirty in the morning at Avient with Mr. Fu Guo. Hope you’re ready for this. I trust you know the address. Good night, Mr. Hart.”
At a stop light, he stared at the phone. Omar had done it and fast. He couldn’t believe it. Tomorrow he’d begin his mission to save the world.
13
At eight-thirty the following morning, Malcolm pulled into the visitor’s parking
lot of Avient Pharmaceuticals beside Omar’s new BMW I8. It was a gorgeous frozen-gray beauty with scissor doors. Malcolm drooled, knowing what his next purchase would be once all this mess was over. Out of the car, Omar shook his hand, hard and firm. “Barnaby. You clean up nicely.” He looked him over. Age had crept up on Omar; he was nearing his late fifties. His short fat neck disappeared into his silken black suit, making him look like an overlarge toad. His finely curled salt and pepper hair plastered to his forehead with copious amounts of gel, and his customary sheen of sweat trickled down his neck. He stood a little over five feet. Malcolm always half expected the man to croak every time he saw him. Croak in the literal sense of the word—not keel over dead; although with the man’s massive mid-section, that wasn’t out of the question either.
“Omar.”
“I took the liberty of making you some business cards.” He handed over a small stack that Malcolm placed in the fancy wallet he’d purchased last night. “You read my email?”
“Yes. Thank you.” After arriving at his hotel last night, he’d found an encrypted file from Omar. The file detailed Barnaby Hart’s identity. He spent the rest of the evening and the early morning hours studying the file and memorizing the details of his new life and existence—his birthday, who his parents had been, where he’d been born, and where he’d went to school. It was always a tedious process and one that he hadn’t expected nor wanted to be doing again for at least another ten to twenty years. He could keep an identity longer, as long as he kept moving or spent time in remote locations living like a hermit with no one the wiser about his supposed age. He was willing to stretch his luck with the advances of medical technology and sanitation. Humans could look the same in photos for decades, becoming modern-day Dorian Grays. Malcolm could totally pull off the Earl Grey tea argument for why he stayed young for so long, that or plastic surgery and hair dye. Alas, with the new and unexpected turn of events, he had to assume a new identity. Again!
The Dream Thief Page 11