The Click

by Steve Shear

“The bank closes at five. How about we meet for a late lunch, say around three. There’s a wonderful café in the Piazza Santo Spirito.”

  The next day ticked by slowly for Meta, but eventually presented itself as a stream of excitement flowing through her veins as fast as the towns passing between Greve and Florence—Chiocchio, Strada in Chianti, and eventually the Stazione di Santa Maria Novella in Firenze. At the same time, she wondered if this was really the right thing to do and whether the American president could be trusted. It has been almost thirteen years since their scientists confirmed the truth so outrageously outlined in those ancient documents Juliette hid away back then, a truth that DanShebans knew well before the indisputable evidence was in. Nevertheless, knowing the truth, even having indisputable scientific evidence, was one thing; convincing the rest of the world, especially the president of the United States, was another. But mostly, up until then the village elders insisted that DanSheba had to keep a low profile. Too much was at stake. They were slowly softening to the idea that maybe, just maybe, her people had a greater obligation to their fellow man than protecting a race of people that lived in the shadows for thousands of years.

  Meta and Yennie lunched under a blue canopy on one edge of the piazza, just steps from the Basilica di Santo Spirito, which during the Renaissance served as a morgue for the destitute. It was there that Michelangelo secretly dissected cadavers in order to learn his trade. And it was there that the beautiful city of Florence stored the unfortunate victims of the great ERAM plague. Most important, it was there that Meta explained in even more detail her plan. Yennie appeared to still be taking it all in when they left together and walked across the Arno River along the scenic Ponte Vecchio Bridge and doubled back on the other side of the river to the Banco di Firenze on Via de Tornabuoni.

  “So this Smotecal Decretum is like an important order or law that a smotec executes. And what does it look like again?” Yennie asked as the bank came into view.

  “You will see shortly.”

  Yennie followed Meta across the bank lobby to a series of gadgets protecting the vault containing customer deposit boxes. She first took her right hand and placed it on a Palm/Finger reader. Once it was firmly in place, a green light lit up indicating she should place her two eyes in a binocular-like device that was designed to scan her pupils. Once she did that, a lid popped up allowing her to punch in a pass code, causing an impervious steel door to unlock. Meta led Yennie in, allowing him his first look at a real Smotecal Decretum and a red hardback diary entitled Top Secret. He put both in his briefcase and they quietly left the way they came.

  ****

  It took several weeks for Yennie to get the ear of his boss, Press Secretary Dillon Burber, and several more weeks for the two of them to get President Andrea Wainwright’s attention. To say she was thunderstruck by the documents being handed over to her would be an understatement. She was horrified, especially considering she had just celebrated her seventieth birthday. Nevertheless, months went by without the subject being raised again. Yennie knew better than to raise it himself even though he promised Meta he would when the time seemed right. Just when he had summoned the courage to remind Dillon of their earlier conversation, the Press Secretary popped into his office and handed him a three-page confidential document as well as the Smotecal Decretum and red diary.

  “The president wants you to implement this,” Dillon said without more discussion.

  Before Yennie could focus on the document, Dillon was gone. He quickly read through all three pages and sighed. He was conflicted. What had he started? What had they started? Then, with another sigh and a great deal of ambivalence, he pulled out his scud and called Meta.

  After putting the president’s plan into action, one political and policy disaster after another seemed to put it out of everyone’s mind, except Meta’s, and Yennie was reminded of that often. Finally, things quieted down long enough for the plan, blessed by the president, to unfold—which seemed to take place mostly after the sun went down. The White House always appeared that much brighter to Yennie as he came and went during the late evening hours, as they plotted against the Cūtocracy. While he remained focused, every once in a while he caught himself dreaming of an extended vacation at home, far away from the insanity that consumed Washington, DC. But not now, he thought as he looked at the restroom mirror and stared at the dark red circles around his black eyes. Fortunately, his short-cropped hair never needed combing and deodorant often took the place of a shower.

  Yennie took a deep breath, left the restroom, and walked down the hall to the third office on the right. The magnetic triadic arcs under translucent domes lit up the room in a way only the noon sun could, and it seemed more extreme given the time, almost midnight.

  Dillon Burber was born and raised in Seattle. He hated overcast skies and dimly lit rooms, or so he told Yennie on many occasions. President Wainwright’s press secretary hugged the back of his chair with his spine erect and his eyes focused on his aide, now sitting across the desk from him. Dillon’s physical appearance, his short, thin frame, and thick head of uncombed hair, may have matched his public demeanor, E-flat according to most reporters, but it didn’t match his ferocious private demeanor. Yennie learned that quickly after they met. Dillon attended college with the president, Louisiana State University, and was more protective of her than the president’s entire security team. Few people reached the president’s ear without first beating on Dillon’s eardrum.

  No one knew that better than Yennie, whose black skin made its own statement under Dillon’s MTA dome-shaped fixtures. He graduated from Princeton University with honors, and after interning on the Wainwright vice presidential bid, Dillon hired him. Eventually he became the Press Secretary’s primary aide. At the moment, he had in his hand the lab results they both had been anxiously waiting for.

  “Well?” Dillon sat even more erect waiting for the verdict.

  “It’s authentic. There’s no doubt about it.”

  “How could they tell?” Clearly Dillon wanted to cover all his bases. The president’s reputation depended on it.

  “They analyzed the paper, the toner particles forming the print, the ink making up the signature, and the watermarks. The seal itself turned out to be gold. They all go back to the period we are interested in. What we have is a secret Smotecal Decretum, and there is no doubt about its authenticity.”

  “And the signature itself? How do we know it’s the signature of Innocent II?”

  Yennie smiled. “First, because our best handwriting expert, probably the best in the world, says so as do the others. Second, we’ve managed to lift a fading fingerprint off the paper that seems to match his. Third, we were able to lift a partial print off the seal, a crisp print, that our people are confident is his.”

  “In that case, my young friend, I believe we have our smoking gun. I will give this information to the president.” Dillon Burber sat further down in his chair and was now smiling. “One more thing―does everyone in the loop understand…”

  “Yes. The Smotecal Decretum and the diary have been classified Top Secret.”

  “All right. Then you take the lead, Yennie. I don’t even trust the NSA. Make it a very subtle leak.”

  “Then what?”

  “We will see where it takes us, who we’re dealing with. We can’t afford a screw up. We need the public on our side if we are to succeed.”

  Chapter Three

  Oliver Hitchcock, six foot four and thin, looked and felt more than twenty years younger than his seventy-eight years. That had something to do with the fact he was a Beater, and good genes, he thought, bounding up the old brick steps to the front door. Dressed in baseball gear with a big “M” on the cap that covered his bald head, he knocked at the door and immediately let himself in. Hitch’s daughter, Kathy, waited at the bottom of the stairs with a stern expression and folded arms.

  “Dad, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Where is he? OJ.”

  “Four times jus
t this morning he heard it.”

  Hitch stepped to one side of Kathy and yelled up the stairs. “OJ! Game time!”

  Oliver Junior, Hitch’s eleven-year-old grandson and namesake, raced down the stairs in his Mudrakers baseball uniform. Kathy stretched her arms out to block him.

  “No! You are not…”

  OJ ducked under her arms, grabbed his baseball glove off a table, and charged out the door.

  “See, OJ wants to play. He’s…”

  Just then, meek and fragile Christopher, Hitch’s younger grandson, appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Kathy looked up and barked at him. “Christopher, stay in your room.” He disappeared without a word. She turned back to her father with venom in her eyes.

  “No. You want him to play. We both know what he’s hearing.”

  “What’s he supposed to do? Stay in his room until… He isn’t even sick yet.”

  “I guess throwing up in the middle of the night doesn’t count.”

  Hitch raced for the door. “For God’s sake, the Mudrakers are playing for the championship. What do you expect?” He really couldn’t understand his own daughter. Why wouldn’t she want what could be his last weeks to be memorable?

  Just as he and OJ arrived and raced into the crowd of parents and fans, the players on the opposing team, the Possums, were taking the field and Hitch’s tiff with his daughter no longer occupied his thoughts. He remained focused on the game through all six and a half innings. It was the bottom of the seventh, the Mudrakers were up by one—three to two—but the Possums had bases loaded. OJ stood on the mound, distressed and grim-faced. The count was two balls and one strike. His eyes darted from the batter to his grandfather in the dugout. He stepped off the mound and dropped his glove. The palms of his hands moved up to his temples as his eyes closed, as he grimaced, a grimace obvious enough for Hitch to see and ignore even though he could imagine the Click, Click, Click filling OJ’s head.

  OJ opened his eyes, looked back at the scoreboard in left field, to a hologram projecting twenty feet up. He turned back to the batter and picked up his glove, slowly and with a great deal of effort. Hitch stepped out from the dugout. “Come on, OJ, finish this kid.”

  OJ returned to the mound, looked at the base runner on third, then wound up and pitched. “Strike two,” the umpire behind the plate called. The count was two balls and two strikes. Again, OJ grimaced and again Hitch could imagine the Click, Click but ignored it once again. He could even see the sweat dripping down OJ’s cheeks. “One more strike OJ, that’s all.”

  OJ acknowledged his grandfather with a nod, wiped the beads from his cheeks, wound up and pitched—way outside, causing the catcher to fall to his right with his mitt extended to make the save. Hitch was so focused on the save; he didn’t notice his grandson fall to his knees until he heard the umpire call timeout. “Get another pitcher, Hitchcock,” he snapped.

  Hitch waved him off, jogged out to the mound, and helped OJ up.

  “It’s so loud. I…”

  “Son, you’re no quitter.”

  “I’m trying. It’s… It’s that sound.”

  “Forget that. Forget the crowd. Just concentrate on the strike zone. Just one more pitch.” Hitch patted him on the back and headed for the dugout.

  The umpire jumped into his path. “Are you crazy?”

  Hitch snapped back. “Just do your job.”

  Play resumed. All eyes were on OJ who wiped the sweat from his brow and fixed on the batter. The Crowd cheered, players on both sides hooted and hollered. OJ glanced at his grandfather. Hitch nodded and clapped his hands.

  The count was full, three balls and two strikes. OJ wound up and delivered the ball right down the middle. The base runners took off, and the batter swung, strike three. The Mudrakers beat the Possums, three to two. Hitch could see his grandson at the mound with his hands up and a victory grin across his face. The Mudrakers fans swarmed the field in celebration, hiding OJ from view. Suddenly, Hitch heard the umpire’s voice. “Hitchcock! Get out here.”

  Hitch wedged his way through the celebration, spotted the umpire, then his grandson on the ground. He crouched over OJ, who was on his back, stiff, motionless. For a moment he froze, then looked up at the umpire who glared back.

  ****

  In an uncharacteristic fit of anger, Christopher insisted he wanted to see his brother play ball. Kathy was just as adamant that they not go, that is, until her mother showed up at the front door. Edna Hitchcock, whose matronly appearance contrasted sharply with Oliver’s youthful exuberance, had no intention of denying her favorite grandson his wish, and she made that quite clear to her daughter.

  Kathy navigated the typical Saturday afternoon traffic through the Virginia suburbs of Washington DC on a cushion of air, allowing her scud to take control and negotiate side streets it found were clear. She pulled into the parking lot as one car after another streamed past her. “The game must be over,” she said after pulling into a space and dropping to the ground.

  “Mom, look!” Christopher pointed to flashing red lights.

  Kathy jumped from the car allowing her to see the paramedic truck, then dashed off knowing exactly what she would find. She felt her heart racing faster than her feet could pedal, as she approached a crowd surrounding the flashing lights. Needing someone to hold on to, she slowed down and allowed her mother and Christopher to catch up. Two paramedics carried a stretcher with a body covered over, causing her to let go of her mother’s hand, and Christopher’s. After pushing through parents and kids, she flung herself onto the stretcher, closed her eyes, and wailed. By then, Hitch and the umpire were at her side. She looked up, filled with the anguish only a parent knows, and saw her father looking limp and woozy. The umpire stepped between them and spoke the very thoughts that echoed across her temples. “A Preemie in the throes of the Click and you let him play?” The umpire walked off shaking his head as the remaining crowd was shocked into silence. Only sobs and moans from the dead boy’s mother could be heard.

  Kathy turned away from the stretcher as it was lifted into the paramedic truck and grabbed onto her younger son, purposely blocking his view, while quietly glaring at her father.

  “He died a champion, not in bed. At least I gave him that,” he whispered loud enough for his daughter and the others to hear. He marched on to the empty field and fell to his knees at the pitcher’s mound. Kathy could hear him sob but remained where she was, frozen in time, praying she would blink her eyes and discover there was no such thing as the Click or Preemies.

  While everyone seemed to have a difficult time at the funeral, Kathy was devastated. OJ had been her first miracle, Christopher her second. She and her parents and Christopher, as well as the others, sat on wooden folding chairs at the burial site. They listened to the minister from their Liberal Church of Spirituality when she noticed her father standing to one side staring off in the distance. She followed his gaze and saw across the road a lone woman leaning against a tree staring back in her direction. The woman was wearing a black leather jacket with VAMA in yellow along one sleeve. Kathy knew the jacket and VAMA, the Vaccine Assurance and Management Agency, but didn’t have the slightest idea why she was there or why her father even noticed—except for the fact that the woman seemed quite attractive.

  Chapter Four

  More than three weeks passed, and Oliver Hitchcock’s sleep had been pummeled with nightmares of guilt and regret, emotions he successfully avoided in the light of day. On this particular morning, the bedroom was still dark when he shook himself out of one of those nightmares. He glanced to his right, toward the wrinkled sheets next to him, then looked around the room. He was alone but could hear rustling sounds from the kitchen. He started to rise, but the pain of reality flashed through his head as quickly as the nightmare receded. At that moment, all he could think about was how difficult it was for his daughter to have children, how she now only had one. No! He wasn’t going there. The past was the past. Learn from it but don’t dwell on it—the
CIA code. Easier said than done this time.

  Before starting a fight with his buried emotions—those feelings he refused to acknowledge much of his life—he heard footsteps. Janine Rousseau, Detective Janine Rousseau, forty-five years of age, tiptoed into the opened doorway wearing a thin robe. Hitch watched her smile then drop her robe, exposing the body of a twenty-year-old. She approached, licking her lips, and crawled back into bed. With her bare hands reaching under the covers, she managed to draw him into the present, into her. For the next twenty minutes they made love for the fourth time in twelve hours. Before he could catch his breath, Janine was in her robe once again, strolling back to the kitchen.

  He rose from the bed and yawned, then jumped into his trousers and shoes and walked after her carrying his shirt. “Have you seen my cap?” he asked.

  “Where you left it, on the couch in the living room,” Janine answered standing at the kitchen stove with her back to him.

  It was there as she said, along with her black leather jacket with VAMA in yellow down one sleeve. Next to both were a Phoenix-classic black leather shoulder holster and matching pearl handled laser handgun, an empty bottle of vodka, two glasses, and a half empty pitcher of orange juice. Hitch picked up his Mudrakers cap, which he constantly wore as a reminder of better times, and stood there buttoning his shirt. All the while, he noticed for the first time a framed photo of Janine standing with a young girl, probably seven or eight, in front of the Eiffel Tower.

  “I’m done with this, Janine,” he announced as he opened the front door to leave.

  “I doubt that,” he heard back, and he glared at her. “You’re too narcissistic to give up the good life of whisky and women. Besides, your clock may not be clicking but it is ticking and there’s only so much life left in it, and in you. You’ll be back.”

  Hitch ached to put Rousseau down, to let her know she was full of shit. Instead, he turned and marched out, leaving the door ajar.