Lost Yesterday td-65

by Warren Murphy

  “Not just your body,” he lied. “You.”

  “No, really?” she said.

  “Really,” Colonel Armbruster said, feeling like a famine victim let loose in the fruit stalls of a gourmet store.

  “Then would you read a love note I wrote at a very special time?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “Absolutely.”

  The girl called Joan left the bed momentarily with Armbruster reaching out after her.

  “I'll be back, silly,” she said. She reached under her skirt, which lay in a pile on the motel-room chair, and took cut a pink letter, holding it by one end. She also had a Ziploc plastic bag.

  “What's that? What's the bag for?”

  “Well, Dale, I want you to read it where you work. And it's scented with perfume, perfume I rubbed all over my body, Dale, perfume that was on me in very tender places. That letter was in those places too, Dale.”

  “If we just met tonight, where did you get time to write a letter?”

  “It wasn't to you by name. It was to the man who fulfilled my dreams. It tells that in the letter.”

  “Your dream too?” said Armbruster. He couldn't believe it. “You're my dream.”

  “You see. I knew that,” said the girl called Joan. “I knew I would be someone's dream. It's all in the letter. But you've got to read it where you work.”

  “Why where I work? Where I work isn't that romantic.”

  “That's just it. I want to be more than just a single night in a motel room. I want to see you again. I want us to have something. I want you to think about me, think about me not just here but other times.”

  “Sure I will,” said Colonel Armbruster, reaching out for the luscious young woman.

  But she backed away.

  “I don't know if I can believe you. You'll see in the letter what I want. I don't want to take away your marriage. I don't want your money. I want you. I've had a dream, and if you are not part of that dream, I don't want you. It's that simple.”

  Colonel Armbruster watched her cover up that luscious body with clothes; watched the cantaloupe-shaped bosom disappear into a bra, leaving only the outlines of what he still wanted to hold; he watched the skirt go up over the smooth young thighs.

  “I will know if you read the letter anywhere else. I will know,” she said. “I will know if you even open it anywhere else. And then you'll never see me again.”

  “How will you know? There's no way you can know,” said Armbruster.

  “I'll know,” she said, leaning forward as though to kiss him, but dropping the plastic bag that contained the envelope onto the bed instead. She retreated quickly, taking her body with her.

  “Good-bye,” she said.

  “You don't even know where I work,” he said, laughing.

  “I don't have to,” she said. “It's not part of my dream.”

  It was enough logic for Armbruster to think about. If she were part of his dream, then why couldn't he be part of hers?

  But how would she know where he opened the letter? He didn't want to bring the letter home because his wife might find it. And he certainly didn't want to read a perfumy letter in the cockpit of Air Force One. The President's pilot had to be above reproach.

  Armbruster tried to think of the one place his wife would not spot the incriminating little plastic bag. At home there was none. Instead he chose his special locker at Andrews Air Force Base, home of Air Force One, the President's plane. Armbruster, the President's favorite pilot, was not scheduled to fly for a week, but he moved himself up in the rotation just to get a chance at being alone in the cockpit with the letter. He still didn't know how Joan would know where he read the letter, but everything had been so gloriously perfect with his dream that he decided not to take even that small chance.

  The mission of the day was Cheyenne, Wyoming. The letter was safely sealed in the plastic bag inside his jacket.

  Flying the plane that was called Air Force One when the President was aboard was easier than any other flight duty a pilot could have, even easier than commercial air. In commercial air, pilots always had to look out for other aircraft. But for this special jet, there was no real alertness required in that respect. An air corridor was cleared for miles around. And if any planes even got close to that corridor, Air Force jets would intercept and turn them away.

  Once they were outside the Washington air space, the copilot and engineer took off their jackets and enjoyed a cup of coffee.

  “Dale, can I take your jacket?” asked the flight engineer.

  “No, I think I'll wear it,” said Armbruster. He wondered if it mattered to the luscious Joan whether he read it anywhere at work or whether it had to be read from behind the controls. He could go into the lavatory and read it there. But he felt there was something so mystical about this chance meeting that the lavatory would not do it justice. Besides, he wanted to be able to tell her the next time they met that he was in the cockpit at the controls when he saw her words. He would describe everything to her.

  Colonel Armbruster waited until they were over Ohio before he sent the copilot back to the main cabin to speak to another member of the crew, and then gave the engineer a task that would keep him intent at his charts for ten minutes.

  He put the controls on automatic pilot and settled back in the seat to read his letter. The bag opened easily but the letter had some oily substance on it. He wondered how heavy the perfume on that wonderful body had been. He opened the envelope and then saw a blank page. He didn't know why it was blank. He didn't quite know why it was in his hand. He put it down.

  The sky was incredibly blue up here. Not a cloud, like the purest blue glass. There were lots of dials in front of him. Pretty dials. He turned around. No one was looking at him. He saw a red switch. He wondered what it would do. Would it make the plane bounce and hop? Would it do fun things? Could he change the color of the sky? Would anyone spank him?

  These questions passed through what was left of the mind of Colonel Dale Armbruster as he flicked the red switch. Then he pushed the wheel in front of him. The plane went down. He pulled back the wheel. The plane went up. He turned the wheel. The plane pitched and banked.

  Whee, thought Colonel Armbruster.

  “Turbulence, Dale?” asked the engineer.

  “No,” said Dale. He wondered how long he could do this before someone took him away and told him not to play with the plane anymore. He pushed the wheel forward, and the plane went down toward the clouds.

  He went through the clouds. Everyone went through the clouds. And no one was stopping him. There was a lever to his right. He pushed it forward. The plane went faster. Whee.

  “Dale, what the hell's goin' on there?” asked the flight engineer.

  “Nothing,” said Colonel Armbruster. “Leave me alone.”

  “I'm not bothering you. What's going on?”

  “Nothing's going on. I'm not doing anything wrong.”

  “Nobody said you were. We're in a power dive. Why are we in a power dive?”

  “It's nice.”

  “Dale? What the hell's going on?”

  “My plane,” said Colonel Armbruster.

  At a thousand feet the copilot came sliding back into the cabin, trying to get to the control. The last thing he heard before the shattering crash was the captain fighting him away, with a childlike scream. “Mine!”

  The jet called Air Force One plowed into an Ohio parking lot at five hundred miles an hour. There wasn't ten feet of anything left connected. What had once been human life had to be collected in little plastic bags no bigger than the one that was now burned up along with the letter in the explosion.

  * * *

  Remo, Chiun, and Daphne Bloom arrived in Los Angeles an hour before the crash. Daphne was enthralled.

  “We're here. In the home of the founder of Poweressence. Don't you feel the positiveness of it? The force of the great 'yes' transcending all?”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “You are most wise, child,” said Ch
iun in English, and then in Korean:

  “Even in India there aren't people that stupid. And India has got more gods than rice.”

  “This is California, Little Father. They have more gods than rice also,” said Remo in Korean.

  “I love the beauty of your language. Is that the Sinanju religion you were talking of?”

  “No,” said Remo.

  “Yes,” said Chiun.

  “What a beautiful dichotomy,” said Daphne.

  “Have you ever met Dolomo or Kathy Bowen?” asked Remo.

  “We saw recordings of Himself several times. But Kathy regularly visits the temples. And she has one in her own home. She attributes her success to Poweressence unlocking her life forces.”

  “Is she high up in the organization?”

  “She knows the Dolomos personally. She has dinner with them. She is a personal friend of Rubin Dolomo himself. Can anyone help but be successful being near them?”

  “Does she help people who are going to be tried? Ever hear anything about that?” asked Remo.

  “Oh yes. She was the one who announced on her show Amazing Humanity that people who have suffered hopeless cases have suddenly with the help of Poweressence been freed of evil and negative forces. And it was so. The people were freed. They escaped the persecution of the government.”

  “Not all,” said Remo.

  “Every one,” said Daphne.

  “What about the Dolomos themselves?”

  “Because they are closer to the forces of goodness, they have to face the greatest forces of evil. The United States government has to persecute them, because the government is evil.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “If the government weren't evil, why would they persecute the Dolomos?”

  “Maybe they don't think that an alligator in a swimming pool is nearly as proper as a letter to the editor.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “You think alligators are good?”

  “You don't understand. You just believe the partial story from a slanted media. That alligator was attracted by the evil of the columnist. But I suppose you don't have enough understanding to see that.”

  “I hope I never do,” said Remo. “Where does Kathy Bowen live?”

  “California, right near here,” said Daphne.

  “Where else,” said Remo.

  Daphne Bloom assured Remo and Chiun that she knew Kathy Bowen personally. She had met her three times and had gotten her autographed picture twice. She had never missed a show of Amazing Humanity.

  Kathy Bowen personally interviewed all the people who wanted to be on the show. Anyone could get on if they could do something no one else could do, said Daphne.

  It took a half-hour to get out of the airport traffic of Los Angeles airport and ten minutes to get to the Poweressence temple-studio of Kathy Bowen. Her ice-blond looks and clear blue eyes with delicate features stared out of every window of the temple-studio.

  To the left of the entranceway, like a gospel reading of the day in front of a church, was a large billboard. It had a message from Kathy Bowen herself. It read:

  “Love, Light, Compassion, and death to the President of the United States.”

  Inside was a line of people waiting to be interviewed at a desk. At the head of the line someone was saying that Ms. Bowen would see everyone in their turn. Ms. Bowen loved humanity. Ms. Bowen felt truly in touch with humanity. But the humanity had to stay in line. And the humanity should not make noise or eat anything in the temple-studio itself.

  “Her presence is truly positive,” said Daphne Bloom, glowing.

  Ahead of Remo and Chiun and Daphne Bloom was a boy who talked to frogs, a quadriplegic who could spit his name in ink against a bedpan, and a grandmother who liked to sit on ice with no clothes on.

  Only the grandmother was rejected from Amazing Humanity because no one could figure out a way to dramatize nudity on ice gracefully. And besides, sitting lacked the kind of action the producers of Amazing Humanity liked. Everyone selected, of course, would get to meet Ms. Bowen and sign, in her presence, the release guaranteeing that the guest would not sue on grounds of public ridicule or injury.

  When Remo, Chiun, and Daphne Bloom reached the producer's desk, they were asked what they did.

  “I don't know what she does,” said Remo, nodding to Daphne, “but we do everything.”

  “Better than anyone else,” said Chiun.

  The producer wore a white robe and a dash of pink silk around her neck. Every bit of the world appeared an insult to his magnificently perfect sense of taste. His wavy hair was dyed blue and hung down the back of his neck.

  He liked California because he could go unnoticed here.

  “We can't show everything. You've got to do something specific,” he said.

  “Name it,” said Remo.

  “For a price,” said Chiun.

  “Can you spit ink into a bedpan?”

  “We can spit it through the bedpan. And you too,” said Remo.

  “That's hostile,” gasped Daphne. “You've got to work out your hostile elements. That's hostile.”

  “I like hostile,” said Remo.

  “Spitting ink through a bedpan sounds absolutely perfect. How long have you been doing it?”

  “Since I wanted to meet Kathy Bowen,” said Remo.

  “Will this be on television?” asked Chiun.

  “National prime-time television, with Kathy Bowen as host and moderator and dynamic force.”

  “I have a little poem about a flower opening. It is in the Tang form, an ancient Korean dialect. It can be edited for television.”

  “Poetry doesn't go. Could you recite it underwater?”

  “I suppose,” said Chiun.

  “Could you do it underwater while eating lasagna?” said the producer of Amazing Humanity.

  “Not lasagna,” said Chiun. “It has bad meat and cheese, does it not?”

  “Eating anything you like?” asked the producer.

  “I suppose,” said Chiun.

  “While being attacked by sharks?” asked the producer.

  “A shark is not an invincible weapon,” said Chiun.

  “You can beat a shark?”

  Chiun looked to Remo, puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he can do sharks. I can do sharks. We both do sharks. We could do a whale if we had to. When do we meet Kathy Bowen?”

  “They're Level Ten Powies,” said Daphne helpfully.

  “I like that. I like the whole scene, but do we need the poem?” asked the producer.

  “Absolutely,” said Chiun. “I will wear my recital kimono. What you see now is ordinary traveling gray, with speckled bluebird wings. Not suitable for prime-time television.”

  “Okay, do the poem for ten, may twelve seconds and then we'll bring on the sharks while you're eating your favorite meal underwater.”

  “I can cut the Tang to its barest lean form,” said Chiun.

  “Perfect,” said the producer.

  “Ten hours.”

  “Nothing runs ten hours,” said the producer.

  “True Tang poems run to fifty,” said Chiun.

  “Can't use more than ten seconds,” said the producer.

  “How do you know? How do you know unless you have heard a Tang poem?”

  “I don't want to hear ten hours of anything.”

  “Then your ears need readjusting,” said Chiun.

  Helpfully he massaged the producer's ears until enlightenment filled his fair Western face. The producer agreed to ten hours of anything if Chiun would only stop.

  He did.

  Kathy Bowen was preparing the press conference of her life, as she called it, when one of her producers insisted she meet the odd trio. The old one recited poems while eating underwater and fighting sharks, the young one just fought sharks, and the girl did nothing.

  “Maybe we can put her in a costume or feed her to the sharks,” said Kathy. She wore an elegant light print dress wit
h sunflowers, signifying her bright positive attitude toward the world.

  “Can't feed a performer to the sharks. It will never get past the screening committee. No real blood around,” said her lawyer.

  “Can the sharks eat her without blood?”

  “I've seen it done.”

  “Wouldn't be a bad attraction. I could look distressed, we could have some attendants desperately try to fish her out, no pun intended, and then cut to a commercial until we come back. No one would leave their sets.”

  “Death doesn't go on national television.”

  “I see it on the news all the time.”

  “You have more leeway with news.”

  “They get away with everything,” said Kathy. “All right. Show them in. But I don't have much time. I absolutely want to be in front of the press as soon as possible. I have a warning for America.”

  Kathy was given the release forms and the performers were told to enter her presence. Kathy Bowen Enterprises had found out long ago that if she herself handed performers the documents, they would put up less fuss in signing away all their rights.

  She would give her famous perfect white-toothed smile and her perfect upbeat handshake and then slip the suckers a pen. It rarely failed.

  It failed this day.

  The old Oriental wanted ten hours of air time. To her horror, Kathy saw that one producer already had promised it. The younger man, an attractive dark-eyed specimen who did not seem impressed or amused by Amazing Humanity, wanted to talk about Poweressence.

  “I've got a problem. I am facing a stiff court fight and it looks as though I am going to lose. There is a witness against me who has me all but convicted. I hear Poweressence can help people like that.”

  “Poweressence helps everything.”

  “But I want that,” said Remo.

  “You can get that. But you've got to make it to the thirtieth level.”

  “I've never heard of the thirtieth level,” said Daphne. “That must be ecstasy. Do you remember me? We met at the Miami temple. You gave me an autographed picture. I was at Level Three at the time. I couldn't afford more.”

  “And how much does it take to make it to the thirtieth level?” Remo asked, undistracted.

  “Well, the thirtieth is a major spiritual threshold, so there is a major contribution required.”