Ren: God's Little Monster

by Sarah Noffke

  Chapter Four

  The new guy’s office door is open when I cruise down the hallway of the Lucidite Institute. The facility is underwater and only accessible by submarine or by dream traveling and generating one’s body using a machine called a GAD-C. As much as I loathe technology I hate pressure changes more, so I entered the Institute on the bed of a GAD-C. It’s one hell of a commute to work. Beats the Tube though.

  I read the placard next to the new Head Strategist’s office, my old office. Dr. John Gibbons. I stroll straight into the tidy office and plop myself down in the cushy chair across from his desk. When it was my office this chair was a cold metal folding one. Not something that encouraged visitors to stay long. He looks up from the folder of information he’s studying as he simultaneously pushes his wire-rim glasses up on his crooked nose. He really should have had that fixed. Maybe I should tell him.

  John makes a startled snorting sound. “H-h-hi, Ren,” he says, trying not to look nervous.

  I cross my ankle over my knee and pin my hands behind my head and lean back. “So, Jake, I’m here to get a new case,” I say.

  He coughs, and it’s all phlegmy. Overly so. “I thought you were getting your cases directly from Trey,” he says in his revolting nasally voice.

  The guy has his polo shirt buttoned all the way and it hangs loose on his bony shoulders. He wears a wedding ring but I’m guessing they never consummated the marriage. This is not a guy who gets laid.

  “Now that Trey has put me back on level five assignments, he says I can get them directly from you,” I say, not an ounce of stress or hesitation in my voice. I’m fairly certain I could beat a lie detector test.

  What’s-His-Face looks down at the various folders lining his desk and then at me. His expression is full of reluctance.

  “Don’t believe me?” I say, pulling my hands down and into my lap. “Go ask Trey for yourself.”

  The buffoon nods, a look of relief filling his face from the permission I’ve just granted him. He reaches for the phone.

  “Thing is, Trey hates the phone and prefers in-person interactions,” I say.

  Jerk-face’s hand pauses on the phone resting on its cradle. “Trey doesn’t hate anything,” he says.

  “Okay, I exaggerated. But seriously, you haven’t been around here long. Trey likes face-to-face conversations. For some insane reason he enjoys looking at people directly,” I say.

  “And he signed off for you to have level five cases?”

  The urge to just use mind control on this git and make him turn over a case to me is strong. However, it’s the one order Trey gave me all those years ago. No mind control on Lucidites. He probably would fire me for it. Damn self-righteous do-gooder.

  I wave at the door. “Go on now. Go ask Mr. Institute.”

  He stares at me and then at the door, then shakes his head like in a trance. “But why didn’t he tell me himself?”

  “For the love of God, he’s got a bloody world to save. Do you think he has time to sit down and have one-on-ones with you?” I say.

  The Head Strategist makes a sucking sound like drool is trying to escape his chapped lips. Then he wipes his slightly shaking hand across his mouth. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check with him.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t. I’ll stay here. Go on,” I say and wave him to the door.

  He stands with a jerk like I spooked him. His mauve shirt is tucked into his wrinkled khakis. If his inability to deal with his bodily fluids wasn’t disgusting enough, then his dress is about to make me gag. The wanker turns and scurries his skinny ass out of the office. I probably have less than a minute. I whip forward, shuffling through the files. They are color-coded. I don’t pause until I find the red files at the bottom of the stack. There are only two, but they are thick. I whip open one and scan the first page. Level five assignments are never easy and usually involve a lot of detail. Still, this one is extra confusing. They don’t have names for any of the parties. Only labels like Person E and Place 2307. I flip through the file. It all reads like that. How hadn’t the news reporters obtained more details during their sessions spying on the future? Or the investigative reporters should have dug up something. The information is worthless to me in this state.

  I hear his squeaky white high tops before he materializes. Slowly I bring my eyes up until they are resting on John. He has his hands pinned up high on his waist, and lips pursed.

  “Don’t do that,” I say. “It makes you look even more like a pathetic school girl.” I drop my eyes and flip a page in the file. More mysterious babble.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he says and marches over and dares to jerk the file out of my hand. Brave move for a guy who I could have wearing his underwear on his head and cawing like a crow, if I dared.

  “I was looking for your stash of Cosmo magazines. I don’t think they were in that file,” I say.

  He huffs. “You were trying to steal information on a level five case. Trey says you haven’t been given clearance.”

  “Oh, he must have forgotten. That airhead,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand.

  “Ren, you’re lying,” he says, scooping up all the cases on his desk while giving me an apprehensive look over his shoulder. With his arms full he takes them over to a file cabinet and quite clumsily attempts to pull open the top drawer, which is a few inches taller than him.

  “Need a hand?” I say.

  “Stay away,” he says, an edge of fear in his voice, like I’m about to steal his lunch money.

  “Why aren’t any of the subjects or location names in those files? You only know about events, but not who they’re happening to or when or why?” I say.

  He drops the files into the cabinet with great effort and struggles to shut it. With a protective glance at the cabinet he pulls the key out of the lock and sticks it in his pants pocket. I can read the hesitation in him. He’s been told to not give me any information. Damn Trey. He’s serious about me getting my blood pressure in check.

  “You know, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over,” I say as I stand, extending a hand out to him. I’m at least a half a foot taller than the dweeb.

  He eyes my hand and then me. “I’m not shaking your hand. I already know you have telepathy linked to touch.”

  I blow out a breath and narrow my eyes at him. His rat brain is working though, I can tell as he takes his seat again. I stay standing. It’s more menacing that way.

  “Okay, I’ve got a deal for you. I’ll tell you about the deciphering problem if you’ll do something for me,” he says.

  “Look, Jeb, I don’t swing that way,” I say.

  His eyes bulge with embarrassment and he shakes his head. “No! And me either,” he says, and his voice is high-pitched suddenly. A revolting sound, like the squeal of a bird at sunrise. “And my name is John.”

  “Oh, right, sorry, Johnny. I’ll get it right from now on,” I say.

  “Just John,” he says. “My sister is the only one who can call me Johnny.”

  “Sure thing. Love getting the family history,” I say in a bored voice. “And this favor you want in exchange for information on the level five case? What is it?”

  His skinny face flushes a shade pinker. “You’re going out with that pop star Dahlia, right? That’s what the people around here have said.”

  Oh good. I’m a topic of gossip. I’m not surprised. People enjoy talking about others who are superior to them. “Look, Dahlia and I aren’t kids and we aren’t going out or going steady. The truth is, when I’m not wasting my time with stupid cases then I’m shagging her.”

  And as I suspected he coughs on his saliva. It actually flies out of his mouth and splatters his desk.

  “Easy now, John-John,” I say.

  “Do you think… I mean is it possible?” he says. “Well, I was hoping—”

  “Do you want to meet Dahlia?” I say in a tired voice.

  He widens his eyes at me in horror. “Oh n
o. That would be too much. I don’t know what I’d say.”

  “How about nice rack,” I say. “She loves that sort of thing.”

  He shakes his head. “I just wanted an autograph.”

  I give him a long look that I’m certain communicates how pathetic I think he is. After a long silence where he squirms several times I say, “Yeah, sure. Just tell me what’s going on with that level five case.”

  His face brightens and he smiles, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth. Then he corrals his excitement and pulls himself tight against his desk, folding his hands in front of him. “There appears to be some sort of shield around these events although we sense a strong psychic energy. The news reporters find the events, as usual, but atypically they can’t read anything about the people involved or anything else. No names, descriptions, or locations. Not even a timeframe. We just know the events are of importance and that’s why we’re picking up on them,” he says, his voice about like I’d imagine an Italian Greyhound would sound if they could talk.

  “And the investigative reporters?” I say.

  “Nothing. There’s a barrier,” he says.

  “Then how are we supposed to intervene on events that we can’t see completely?”

  “Actually, I’m glad that you asked that question because that’s exactly my problem.”

  “So you want me to swoop in here and fix your problems, do you?” I say.

  “No, but if you have any ideas…” he says, a hopeful look in his glasses-magnified eyes.

  “Not a one. Good thing I’m a rogue agent and these missions rest solely on your shoulders.” I then retrieve my mobile from my breast pocket and tap it twice. I hold it to my ear when it begins to ring. When Dahlia picks up I say, “Hello, luv. How are you?” I look up at the ceiling while I listen to her reply. “You’re right, I don’t really care,” I say. “I’m fine in case you’re wondering.” I listen some more. “Oh, you’re not. Well, whatever. Anyway, I have this incompetent and poor excuse for a human colleague,” I say and pause while Dahlia talks. “Yes, exactly. The new Head Strategist. Anyway, the poor chap has the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old and was hoping you’d sign a poster for him. Is that all right?” I wait for her response. I then nod and bring my eyes up to John, who is cowering like a sissy. “How do you want her to personalize it?” I say.

  “Oh, ummm…” He clears his throat with a revolting sound. “How about, ‘To John with love, one of my most devoted fans. Love always and forever, Dahlia,” he says and for the first time ever he sounds rehearsed.

  “You got that?” I say, although I’m sure she didn’t hear half of it. “Very good. Well, I’m going to ring off,” I say and listen some more. “Yes, of course you do. I’m amazing,” I say and disconnect the call. “Well, I’d stay and chat, but the smell in here is disgusting.” And then I turn and leave.

  Chapter Five

  Most people hate Mondays. Most people are idiots though. There’s something fresh about Monday. New week, no mistakes. Fresh ideas. I get Sunday is supposed to start a week, but no one buys that. It’s just a continuation of Saturday. It’s supposed to be the Lord’s Day, but if you’re agnostic then that just means it’s another day. And I work enough that all the days feel the same. But not Monday. What I like most about Monday is it’s the day when people are the slowest and therefore easiest. It’s also the only day when I know exactly what Dahlia’s doing.

  Since Dahlia and I work odd schedules we’ve made the habit of having brunch every Monday at a café in Malibu. Most people are back to work and we usually have the hibiscus-lined patio all to ourselves. Her guards stand at each of the entrances, their eyes always scanning when we’re out in public, although Dahlia is mostly safe with me. I can disarm most anyone, but I do have a shortcoming. I can’t control a mob of teenagers. That’s what the guards are for.

  Since I’m a creature of habit I prefer to frequent this café even though Dahlia would prefer we mix it up from time to time. Our waitress today, like all the rest in this joint, has long blonde hair and a perky smile. The owner is doing a poor job of hiding his obsession with short blondes.

  The waitress looks directly at me, dutifully holding her order pad, pen tucked behind her ear. “Do you need menus?” she asks, and then switches her gaze to Dahlia.

  “I’ll have my usual,” I say, not glancing at the girl.

  “Actually, he’ll have oatmeal,” Dahlia says. “And yes, I’ll have my usual omelet.”

  I gape at her across the table. “Excuse me. I’m not eating something that hardly qualifies as food.”

  She looks at the waitress with pure confidence. “He’ll have oatmeal and I’m sure he’ll love it.”

  “Okey dokey,” the girl says, not having written down a word and pops off to the kitchen.

  “Dahlia,” I say, my voice deep. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “Helping you lower your blood pressure,” she says, not looking at all deterred. “Studies show that eating—”

  “Don’t you spout some medical study at me, pop star,” I say, cutting her off and feeling heat rushing to my ears, probably making them red.

  She wags a finger at me with a slight smile. “Now keep yourself in check. You know getting angry only makes the problem worse, Ren.”

  “Then stop making me livid.” I’m about to say something insulting when a girl plops my tea down in front of me with a loud clunk. The lid on the pot slides to the side and the canister of sugars tumbles off the unsteady tray she’s holding. However, she manages to keep the tea cups from joining it on the ground. With the same ungraceful force, she drops the cups on the table in front of us. I narrow my eyes and raise them to find a girl with a red ponytail staring down at me. She’s wearing the long apron that all the waitresses in the café adorn, but I know better. I slide the tea cup out from in front of me. “You don’t work here,” I say.

  “What?” the girl says, tossing the tray on the neighboring chair and retrieving the packets of sugar from the ground before dumping them on our table. “Of course I do. It’s my first day,” she says and I just then catch the British accent, although it’s slight.

  “No, it’s not. It’s not your first day because you don’t work here,” I say, looking at Dahlia and then back to the girl, who has high cheekbones sprinkled with orangey freckles. “What do you want?” I say to her.

  “To take your order,” she says, her face neutral, although I spy the micro expressions that tell me she’s lying.

  I snap at Dahlia’s bodyguard to signal the intrusion. “You allowed an obnoxious fan to get through, you moron,” I say to him. He presses his fat finger to his earpiece and says something into it as he rushes over.

  “I’m not a fan,” the girl says, looking offended. “I hate pop music.”

  “Thanks,” Dahlia says, not looking insulted, but rather intrigued. She’s leaning back from the wrought iron table with her legs crossed and foot bouncing slightly.

  The guard is at the girl’s shoulder at once. “Miss?” he says.

  “I’m their waitress,” the girl says, looking at him briefly. He nods at once, believing her lie.

  “The owner doesn’t employ anyone but blondes, little girl. Nice try, diva-stalker,” I say and then look at the meathead. “Get her out of here.”

  The guard reaches for her arm, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t touch me,” she says, a strange conviction in her voice. One that’s a little too familiar.

  And again the guard stops, looking confused, his flat nose wrinkling from his indecision. The girl turns to me, a piercing stare in her eyes. “I’m not here to see Dahlia. I’m here to see you.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her and wait.

  “Are you Ren Lewis?” she says.

  “No, you’ve got the wrong guy,” I say and shake my head at her before looking at Dahlia, but still talking to the girl. “You may leave now.”

  “But I just heard her call you Ren a minute ago,” she says, pointing to Dahlia
.

  Dahlia has a smirk on her face and her eyes on me.

  “You were eavesdropping. Great waitressing,” I say.

  “I’m not a waitress,” the imposter finally admits.

  “No shit,” I say, whipping around to look up at the girl. “And my name isn’t Ren, it’s Reynold.” I give her a childish sneer.

  She returns my look with an annoyed one. “Whatever, but you go by Ren.”

  “If this is about a case I worked, then take up your complaint with my boss,” I say and pull my wallet from my inside breast pocket. From it I retrieve one of John Gibbons’ cards. I pinched a stack from his office. “I can add his mobile number to this if you like,” I say, holding out the card. “He prefers calls late. Really late.”

  She doesn’t take the card. “Do you know a woman named Shannon Fields?”

  I blink at her blankly. “Not ringing a bell.” It’s just then that I realize the patio is empty. Where’s the rest of the wait staff? The place is deserted.

  I angle my head at the dumb guard, still standing at the girl’s shoulder. “Seriously, do your job and get her out of here.”