Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow

by Lee Baldwin

  “Being able to soften ego boundaries, for one. Being present, for another. To share with and empathize with others. Being in a state of constant gratitude.”

  “Empathy.”

  “Gratitude.”

  “The truth?”

  Her New Look

  Lylit needs another avatar. She would prefer to have the same one, the woman who was so elegant in life, her mind so clean and bright. Shame she had died so young. As a Spirit being who can move freely through dimensions of time, Lylit repeats her steps to locate the woman called Cynthia Mullen at the moment of her death. Mullen had died by falling into an icy lake, her remains never found. The first time, Lylit merged into the woman’s sinking body after deep unconsciousness set in, before brain and cellular damage, and with effort raised the lifeless form to the surface. The consciousness that had occupied Cynthia Mullen’s bones heart and mind for forty-four years had already departed.

  Lylit now in the form of a snowy owl waits at the exact point in time and space, perched on a fence post above the muddy bank where Mullen’s car came to rest at a steep angle. The owl’s head turns. A disturbance on the water’s surface. A figure struggles through icy water toward shore, difficult in the sodden winter coat. Choking sounds and labored breathing.

  “Lylit,” the owl calls softly.

  Embodied as Cynthia Mullen, Lylit looks up, sees the owl regarding her from its wise face. She laughs, surprised and pleased to recognize herself in legendary totem bird attire. The Cynthia Mullen Lylit reaches the bank stiff with cold, bends to eject a quantity of icy river water from lungs and stomach.

  “Gah! Drowning is one of the worst.” Looks at the owl, tries to adjust the weighted clothing. The coat stiff with ice in the wintry air. “There’s something up, or both of us wouldn’t be here.”

  “There is. You get killed soon.”

  “Not again! Who is it this time? Mystigor? Apatsed?”

  “Mystigor and Sara.”

  “Unbelievable. They are still misled. What do you need, Sis?”

  “You get to have some fun first. Peek if you want, but you might like to let it play out.”

  “I love surprises! Don’t tell me.”

  “We need to duplicate this one.”

  “Ah, so you are going to continue the story after my death?”

  “I always knew you were smart.”

  A mist gathers around the owl on the branch, traceries extend to engulf the woman, cloud swirls around sacred center. When the mist retreats, two identical women stand on the muddy bank. One is naked, dry. Both are freezing cold. The women regard one another silently.

  “So tell me,” says Lylit in the heavy coat, “why are we going back?”

  “We meet a man.”

  “Ooh, the way you say that. He was special?”

  “He’s looked within and learned to love himself.”

  “Ah. He has found where we dwell, in the heart of every male. Don’t tell me any more!”

  “But there is greater purpose than that. And, you have to do one thing different.”

  “Mm?”

  “You have to get rid of the body.”

  “I love you,” says Lylit in the heavy coat.

  “I love you,” says Lylit, naked and shivering. She imagines herself in the dressing room of a thrift shop in San Jose California. It is morning, the shop will open in an hour. In minutes she selects a chic wardrobe, a purse and shoes. A few muddy footprints mark her way. At the cash register, she leaves a small gold coin. Then, it’s a simple matter to visit the County vehicle impound, and not too difficult to convince the smitten attendant that there’s been a clerical error. It’s time for Lillian Jones to take her car away.

  Inside the car, everything is disturbed. Lillian looks in vain for the restaurant menu with Clay’s number on it, gives up, knows she’ll be able to find his house. She drives the black Aston off the lot. The day is warming as she heads toward the coast, the car’s heater turned full blast.

  Made Her Plate

  Detective Junipero Garcia drives up the shaded dirt track to the old bunkhouse in the redwood grove, followed by a white SUV with gold Sheriff decals on both doors and bars in the windows. He’s had some heat from the command chain on the Jane Doe thing, is pressured now to make an arrest. He doesn’t understand, since it’s a San Jose matter, why he’s picking the guy up. It plopped in his lap due to his deceased Santa Cruz auto mechanic and Cicero Clay’s phone number, written on the takeout menu in feminine handwriting. Garcia thinks it’s rather thin as evidence, but his captain is fixated on closure. Garcia argued that the current swarm of cases should be triaged, managed in priority order. And he believes that what they have on Clay won’t make it through a bail hearing. But his captain is saying butts behind bars and that is the end of it. Maybe after this week he can get some sleep.

  Garcia gets out of his car, walks up to the white SUV. “Hey, keep this low-key. Dude’s alright. You guys stay put.”

  “S’not procedure Garcia,” one protests.

  “This whole thing is counter to procedure. Hang tough.” Garcia starts for the house, notices the high double doors of the metal building stand open, heads that way. He finds Clay at a drill press, making holes in a squealing aluminum panel. Glances at the low-wing airplane, raps on the metal workbench until Clay turns.

  “Detective. What brings you here?” Clay is sure it’s another routine cop visit to confirm a few things, perhaps try to rattle him into some admission, probe around the corners of the situation with the dead woman. Maybe he’ll offer the guy a coffee, he looks so beat. Clay’s unhappy he’s not heard from Lillian. Still in a glow from the connection they had, but it’s been two days now. Hopes she’ll be back. Damn shame if she lost his phone number.

  “We are still looking for the woman’s relatives. That name you gave us didn’t help matters.”

  Clay shrugs. “It’s all I have. Like I said, didn’t get her phone number, gave her mine. My cell batt was dead when we tried to exchange numbers.”

  Garcia’s search of the facial recognition systems for anything on the Jane Doe had won him only the displeasure of FBI intake clerks who field questions from law enforcement agencies across the country. They are running flat-out with search requests and this Garcia maniac calling in every six hours to ask for more refined searches is beyond old.

  “Well, Mr. Clay, I must ask you at this time to place your hands on the bench there. Just put down your tools and this will all be cleared up as soon as possible.”

  Clay can’t believe it. “Garcia, are you busting me?”

  Garcia sighs. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Clay. Please put your hands behind you and stand easy now, will you?”

  Clay rolls his eyes at the rafters. Resigned, he turns his back, puts his arms at his sides. Waits as Garcia cuffs him. Turns around.

  “I hope you have something better than yesterday.”

  Garcia has no comment. Turns Clay by the elbow and guides him outside.

  “Garcia, do me a favor. Close and lock these doors before we go.”

  Without a word, Garcia turns to the task. The two uniform cops run up, lead Clay to the white SUV. Just as Garcia finishes locking the double doors, a black Aston Martin storms into the clearing, stops in a billow of dust. A tall woman with a mane of black hair steps out, yelling excitedly.

  “Clay! What are they doing to you?” She quickly blocks the path of the two officers with Clay. Looking into her eyes, Clay cannot express his relief.

  “These guys are saying I killed you.”

  She laughs, turns to Garcia. “You are no doubt the brains of this outfit. What’s he being arrested for?”

  Garcia gapes in disbelief. She has the face that’s haunted him through days of fruitless investigation. Only this one is alive, vital and beautiful. At a loss for anything original, Garcia falls back on his training.

  “Can we see your ID and car registration, ma’am?”

  She smiles. Hands over the documents. Garcia doesn’t take tim
e to wonder why she has her vehicle registration in her purse.

  “Lillian Margaret Jones?”

  “As you see there, detective.” The way her smoky voice caresses each syllable makes Garcia think of a blowjob.

  “Address in Falls Church, Virginia.”

  “As it says. I work for Lincoln Mutual Insurance Fund. Fraud investigator. Here’s my business card. Now can you tell me what this is about?” She takes time to throw a smile and wink at one of the uniforms holding Clay. His badge says Hinkle, W.

  Officer Warren Hinkle, holding the arm of the perp who stands quiet between him and his partner, eyes the woman through a red mist of rising lust. Her long dark hair drapes a full breast, the expensive blouse reveals soft cleavage. Her narrow waist. Such unwanted compulsions have visited him frequently in the last two days. Clerks at the County offices, university students on the street, women randomly encountered, have made eye contact with him that is at the very least inquisitive, at the most, bold. Sex with his wife at home has been frequent and lurid.

  Following his training, Hinkle has done his best not to react in any way to such public invitations. Two County deputies near Watsonville, however, were placed on admin leave for psych eval after they were found copulating with women in their patrol cars while on duty. These were not planned meetings, the women were simply in the locality, not perps or suspects. Whispered stories have confided that others in the Department have felt similar urges, urges not restricted to males alone. The Devil made me do it.

  Now, Hinkle’s mind is swept into an elaborate fantasy of taking the woman hostage at gunpoint, barricading himself in the house with her so he can have her sexually. She wants him, he knows that look. His penis stiffens in his uniform pants. The woman gives him a slutty smile. Hinkle is about to let go of this perp and…

  Garcia takes a deep breath. “Would everyone just sit on the porch for a moment? I have some calls to make.”

  It takes Garcia ten minutes to be certain he is experiencing a full-on psychotic break. First of all, Lillian Jones’ photo ID checks exactly with a person of her name and description holding a Virginia driver’s license. All details match exactly.

  Garcia phones the County morgue to request a FAX of the case file on his Jane Doe. It takes the clerk five minutes to convince him they have no such person in their files, there is no long drawer in the cooler holding female remains with head separated from the body. Just to be thorough, Garcia calls the auto impound, and learns that there is no black Aston Martin in their records or on their lot. He does hear a random story about one of their workers going home sick.

  Garcia takes out his copy of the Sea Snake menu with Clay’s phone number on it. He dials the number. In his ear three rising tones. Not in service. Tries it again, same story. I need a vacation. I need psychotherapy. I gotta get laid.

  Garcia steps from his car. Without a word, walks to where the two uniforms stand near Clay. One is unaccountably perspiring, casting furtive eyes at the Jones woman’s knees in her short skirt. She is sitting beside Clay on the porch steps, chatting and smiling as though everything is completely normal, hands wrapped around his bicep. Garcia removes Clay’s cuffs.

  “Well we got lucky. All a clerical error. I do regret the intrusion, Mr. Clay. We won’t bother you about this again.”

  The three deputies get in their cars and turn around. Unknown to Clay and Lillian, who have walked into the house, Hinkle, hiding an uncomfortable hard-on, takes note of a car parked there, in particular its plate number. As they leave the driveway, Hinkle says, “Hey I got a plate hit on that yellow sedan in there.”

  His partner gets on the brakes, leans toward the screen. “What’s it say?”

  “FBI Terror Team. Homeland Security apprehend list, she’s in the goddamn top two! Do not approach. Notify via phone or email.” The white SUV exits the clearing. “I’ll take care of this right now,” Hinkle says, forcing his mind on task and trying to forget the woman’s smoldering allure.

  Inside the house, after a fierce hug and several slow kisses, Clay looks at Lillian.

  “This is beyond strange. That detective showed me a photo of someone looks like you, obviously kaput. Had what he thought was evidence linking me to her disappearance. Scared the crap out of me.”

  “I’m fine! I am right here.” She kisses him again. But for a while there she was not fine, pursued by two black angels, punished cruelly and beheaded. But that’s not something Clay needs to know. She is here because Tharcia’s spell brought her into the presence of Lian, her split-apart whom she dearly loves, and made it possible to show herself for the first time in twenty years. Eyes closed holding tight to Clay’s strong body Lillian recalls her feelings when she saw him at the pub, feelings she has for him now. Newly released from her long captivity, she wanted to be out, to play in the world. But how strange, that I should meet the one already so close to Tharcia.

  A black car pulls to a stop in front of the porch. Looking out, Clay groans. Kisses Lillian, says open some wine, steps out onto the porch. The visitor is a solidly-built man in a dark suit, Clay makes him as mid-50s, stands beside his car casting eyes around the clearing, taking in the metal shop building, the trees, the house.

  “Help you?” Clay calls out. When the man turns Clay sees the clerical collar.

  Hello,” the priest says pleasantly, “I am Father Gary Tilton, from the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, in Mountain View. I have a message for Miss Tharcia Harrison.”

  Clay descends the steps, shakes hands with Tilton.

  “Call me Clay. Tharcia is away with friends.” Not willing to share that he has no idea where she is. That he is genuinely worried.

  Tilton scarcely disguises his disappointment. She has not answered his numerous texts and phone messages. The priest hears a rising clamor of fear within himself, an ominous dread about what could happen to the girl. He ponders what to say.

  “Are you… related?”

  Clay considers. First thing that comes to mind is the way he and Tharcia connected, after her mom’s death. Second thing is the leering face of Chester Porterfield, waving his paternity report. “Family friends,” Clay says.

  “Yes. Mr. Clay, I visited Tharcia here several days ago. There is a presence in her bedroom. She showed me.”

  Clay considers the priest with a slantwise glare. “What was the nature of your visit?”

  “Mr. Clay, I am an exorcist. Trained in the Vatican. A friend of Tharcia’s contacted me, a psychic. I came to offer help. She showed me the ice. You must have been aware…”

  Tilton watches Clay’s face, his posture. This man Clay is closer to the girl than he admits. Tilton would like to see the bedroom again, get some photos. He’d been too unsettled at the time to think of photographs.

  “I can’t help you today,” Clay says at last. “Perhaps your phone number?”

  Tilton passes over his card. “My message for her, Mr. Clay, is to reiterate the warning I gave her previously. She is dabbling in the occult, without proper training. I made clear to her that outcomes are random where demons are concerned, unpredictable and dangerous.” Tilton’s logical self tells him she knows nothing. But on the other side, there’s a hunch… What Tilton really wants is to ask her face to face if she had done anything that might be related to the solitary figure at the Pentagon. The girl’s information could be critical.

  “I’ve been asked to join a group of exorcist priests now travelling to Virginia. Young Tharcia may have information that could help the Church with this unimaginable situation.” Tilton privately admits he wants to lay eyes on her again.

  Reading the priest’s card, Clay nods. “I am aware of what happened in her room, the ice. It was like that for several days. Yesterday when I arrived home everything was as usual.”

  Tilton’s head jerks in shock. “Would you mind if I…”

  Clay is already shaking his head. “It is her room. I’ll give her your message.”

  “But…” Father Tilton has thought deeply about
the Devil possessing people, understands every person has a degree of irrational susceptibility, wants to know why Tharcia attracted that kind of energy. What she did, if anything, to get rid of the ice. Tilton tries further arguments to view her room, with or without its evil presence, but is firmly turned away.

  Inside the old bunkhouse, Lillian meanwhile feels no boundaries of personal space. She finds wine, fills a pair of tall stem glasses. Sipping hers, she begins a tour of the house. Downstairs bedroom and adjoining bath, obviously Clay’s. What’s odd to her is the sleeping bag on one side of the bed, zipped open and spilled onto the floor along with shopping bags of women’s clothing and makeup. Who’s been sleeping with him? On a bedside table a phone that plays flowing harp music and occasionally says “Hey Baby!” in a laughing voice. An adjoining bath, men’s things, towels neatly hung, a shower that’s in need of a scrub.

  In the upstairs hallway Lillian finds a bathroom, definitely a woman’s space, looking like someone left in a hurry, a scatter of pill bottles and manicure tools on the floor, toilet not flushed. The bedroom warm with afternoon’s soft breath, walls decorated with dragon posters, the image of a serpent coiled round a voluptuous body. Goddesses in filmy gowns. Pre-Eden Genesis, white angels. A male angel guiding two small girls to the light from a dark woods. Lillian sees, silently whispers, Raziel. A small bedside table crowded with vials of essences, exotic oils, crystals, jeweled pendulums, all sheeted with ice.

  Bitter metallic taste finds her lips, in Lillian’s mind a stark warning. One of them was here. Who? She peels carefully back the days, sees when the ice comes, sees Tharcia kneeling in blood-red robe before a chalked pentagram, chanting spells.

  Of course. She recognizes the moment when she as Lylit first arrived, disembodied, left the ancient spell for Tharcia to find. Another followed me here. Lillian looks at the charcoal drawings thumb-tacked to a wall. Beside a sketch of a sleeping woman, a piece of deckle-edged watercolor paper with Tharcia’s clear handwriting. Lillian reads.

  human now becoming