The Click

by Steve Shear

  For several days Hitch paced through the house in a funk. He was infatuated with Elana Wu, pissed she couldn’t, or wouldn’t help him. The only joy he got out of their meeting, besides her surprising beauty, was shoving a broken glass against the throat of Janine’s thug. He looked at his watch. Almost noon. Kathy and Christopher were coming for lunch and would be there any moment. He rushed to the deck and turned on the grill.

  They ate burgers and chips in the fresh air and watched the hikers parallel the Potomac with wires dangling from their ears. Christopher talked about school and his history project. He was studying how early Christian theology evolved into a religious Ecclesian monopoly, which in turn evolved into a political and social imperative for the betterment of humankind. Hitch listened with interest. His grandson was only eleven and already being indoctrinated. As a nonbeliever, Hitchcock made his views known, even to Christopher, and that aggravated his only daughter, who attended the Liberal Church of Spirituality at least twice a month. At one point, she tried to get her parents to attend, but neither of them would budge, Edna in particular. She had studied Christianity, especially Catholicism, in college and wasn’t sure which was worse, the Catholic Church or the Church of the Ecclesia.

  Later, while Christopher played on his grandfather’s computation shell, Kathy and Hitch cleared off the dishes. Kathy spread out on the kitchen table at least a dozen photos she had taken from her purse. Hitch stared at them in disbelief, as if they were the last thing in the world he expected to see.

  “It was Dr. Delahunt’s idea,” she explained. “He said if I take pictures every day we will be able to monitor the progress.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but isn’t that a bit over the…”

  Just then Christopher showed up announcing he was ready to go home. Kathy pulled her father close and whispered. “Does it look to you like it’s getting worse?”

  “No, absolutely not. Now go home. Get some sleep and don’t take a picture but once a week. I’m sure that will be fine.”

  Hitch kissed Kathy and hugged Christopher before guiding them through the front door and onto the porch. As he did, a VAMA hearse drove past the house. After watching Kathy drive away, he rushed inside, then to the living room window where he caught another VAMA hearse pass by. He stepped into the kitchen, looked at the dozen pictures of Christopher’s V-Mark, and grimaced. It clearly grew darker and rougher by the day. He pulled out a magnifying glass from a drawer and could even see the blistering and general roughness reflected off the flash of the camera. Filled with anger, he picked them all up and threw them in the trash compressor. Hummmmmm.

  He grabbed hold of his scud, tapped in a number, and paced. A hologram swelled up from his scud showing Rajiv Nadu making love with a different woman. Suddenly the hologram disappeared once again.

  “Bad timing again, old man. The answer’s the same. Talk to you soon.”

  Before Hitch could respond, he heard the other end disconnect. “Son of a bitch!” He stomped into his bedroom, removed his shirt, and headed for the mirror, where he preened and flexed his muscles in anger. He picked up a pair of dumbbells and began curling until it hurt. He returned to the mirror, preened once again, then stared at his V-Mark, feeling its smoothness with his fingertips, observing its uniform Indian-redness. Distressed, his eyes shifted back to his reflection, which returned a thousand-mile stare, as if haunted by what it saw. Only his reflection could know his deepest insecurities. He tried shaking it off and quickly opened a cabinet. Every shelf was covered with bottles of vitamins and supplements. He took one labeled “Primo—Get Raw Hard Rock Muscles in Minutes.” He opened the bottle and swallowed a handful. That made him think about Elana Wu.

  After flopping into an easy chair in the study, he pulled out his scud, did a quick search, and tapped on the results. Seconds later he could hear ringing at the other end. An answering machine clicked on. “You have reached Barnaby Bloom. Please leave a message.”

  Hitch decided not to. What he had to say was far too complicated. Instead, he clicked off and jumped from the chair. From the corner of his eye he could see through the window a vehicle lingering on the street. He poked his head out and the black VAMA hearse moved on.

  He stepped out from the study onto his deck where the falls could be heard. The afternoon sun had just crept behind a thick cloud, and a cool breeze seemed to lift his spirits just a little. He wasn’t planning on running—too much to do—but the crashing cry of Potomac whitewater and the sweet smell in the air made for an invitation he couldn’t refuse. After changing into shorts and running shoes, he drove off with Rigoletto plugged into his ears. It took him only a few minutes by car to reach the beginning of his favorite trail, and off he went; first to the left, then the right along the river’s edge, and then up a steep hill overlooking the Potomac river. It reminded him of the ocean waves assaulting the beachheads in Cape Town and Rio de Janeiro, and the sun baked boulders along the river’s edge in so many cities in Neuropa. He loved running along water, but not today it seemed. Today Rigoletto scratched across his temples like new chalk across a whiteboard. Today his memories pulled him back only as far as his last visit with Dr. Delahunt, with Edna.

  In the far reaches of his peripheral vision he saw the doctor chasing alongside him pointing to the report, huffing to keep up, yelling above the roar of the river, “carrier of the ERAM-V virus, carrier of the ERAM-V virus, carrier…” Delahunt’s words, repeated over and over again, drowned out Rigoletto, crushed his innermost ego, assaulted the high opinion he had of himself. He was the reason OJ died; he was the reason Christopher… Fury ignited the muscles in his thighs, in his calves, his feet pumping and pumping, faster, faster in hopes that the body could escape the suffering soul. He had to outrun the guilt that would only paralyze him, that would only reduce to a silent prayer his ability to keep his promise to Edna.

  The trail itself passed under foot as if it were invisible, while his favorite opera underscored his profound shame and provided the beat for each painful step he took. The pounding in his chest would not chip away at his disquietude. He was no less responsible for the death of OJ than Rigoletto was responsible for the death of his daughter, Gilda.

  The sweat bled through most of his t-shirt by the time he reached the front door. He was hungry but couldn’t think of food, too much on his mind. He had grown even thinner since Edna’s death and the promise he made to her, a promise he doubted he would be able to keep. Before OJ and Christopher, he stood up straight, all six and a half feet of him. Lately, he found himself stooping over, as if his thinness refused to support the weightiness carried within his every thought.

  Since he seldom carried his scud during a run, before the front door had a chance to close, habit drove Oliver into his study to see if anyone left a message. The red light on his computation shell was blinking, almost in synchrony with the yellow light on his phone tablet. He quickly called out. “Messages please.”

  “Mr. Hitchcock, this is Barnaby Bloom. I see you called. I was wondering how long it would be before I heard from you. Please give me a call at your convenience.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hitch tidied up the house, pulled out of his driveway for Charlottesville shortly after ten o’clock, and charged toward the speedway where the minimum speed limit was 100 kilometers per hour and the maximum depended on how many horses rode under one’s electroatomic isothermal pedal, and how heavy a foot stomped on it. He was in a hurry and he knew his sorry state would relish the freedom to fly, quite literally.

  Throughout most of the trip, as the speedometer hovered at 275 kilometers per hour and his wheels flew almost six inches above the road at times, he played out in his head where all this was leading and whether it made any sense. Assume the best, assume the worst, and assume all the possible ways of reaching either end result—standard operating procedures in the field. The worst seemed obvious. He wasn’t going to save his grandson. But could his best save him? That question ate into Hitch’s bones and perc
olated through the pores of his skin as he raced past the other vehicles seemingly parked in the slow lane. He kept lining up the possibilities, like foot soldiers on a chessboard trying to protect their own king. They were all pawns fighting bishops—he, Julian, even Rousseau and her idiot minion, all of them.

  Let’s say this Professor Emeritus really does wish to become involved, and suppose we magically discover the Click is a big hoax on unsuspecting seniors, and terrible fallout for innocent children. How is that going to help Christopher in time?

  Just for a second, Oliver Hitchcock thought about initiating reverse thrust and turning back toward home. Was he doing all this merely to anesthetize his own anxieties while his daughter’s only child died in front of his eyes? A repetitive thought; an unwelcomed visitor constantly reminding him of reality and his own ineptitude. Wouldn’t he be better off spending more time with Christopher while he has the chance, or must he get beyond a single child and the unthinkable idea of surviving a grandson, two grandsons? He knew there would be hundreds of other kids following in Christopher’s shoes, and what about all those youthful seventy-five-year-olds who have so much to live for, like Edna before she died? Whatever the reason, selfish or selfless, he had no choice; the rubber had to rise above the road. He had to zoom on.

  His navigator easily found Barnaby Bloom’s house, a sprawling red brick ranch, sitting a good forty yards in from the country road that carried him up and down the Virginia countryside without his wheels ever touching the ground. It was the only house within two acres of anyone else. The narrow road caused him to pull behind a black Trident Racer on a gray asphalt driveway blistered by age and the Virginia sun. As he did, Oliver noticed a table under a bright red umbrella behind the garage and thought he saw a young woman standing next to it, probably the professor’s daughter.

  A voice, low but clear, greeted him as he opened his car door. “Hello there.” The man called out, ambling onto the driveway from the long, narrow front porch that stretched across the entire front of the house. The owner of that voice was short and stocky with long white hair, somewhat bedraggled, clinging to his shoulders, and an equally white mustache painted thickly across his face.

  Barnaby Bloom held out his right hand from the sleeve of a jacket at least a size too large. “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”

  As Oliver stepped out of the car, he looked up somewhat puzzled.

  “Obviously you are not Dr. Livingston. But you recognize the name? No?” Barnaby was smiling.

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’m Oliver Hitchcock.”

  “Quite so, quite so.”

  “And you are Professor Bloom, I gather?”

  “Barnaby, just plain Barnaby.”

  ****

  Janine Rousseau sat in an unmarked beige SUV with tinted windows a half mile down the road from the Bloom house. She was aggravated; pissed was the word that rang through her mind, as she played snoop for General Roseshit. With the aid of binoculars, she watched through a crack in the front passenger window as Hitchcock shook hands with the white-haired old man while she took note of the black Trident in the drive way. Just as she jotted down its license plate her scud rang. She looked at it and groaned.

  “Yes, General?”

  “Are you on him?

  “Yes, but I’m no fucking Patrol Boy, damn it!” She continued to watch Barnaby Bloom as he walked his guest into the house.

  “You are what I say you are, and right now you are my eyes and ears. The Cūtocratic council is concerned. They’ve decided they want the son-of-a-bitch out of their hair.”

  “I thought they needed him to find the Shmuckie Decretum, or whatever the hell it’s called?”

  “That’s the smotec’s concern, and McGivney’s. The Council doesn’t believe the damn thing exists. So do what I say. And while you’re at it, they want that Wu woman to disappear also.”

  Rousseau couldn’t keep up with the schizophrenic changes in strategies. “But…”

  “No buts, Rousseau. Just remember I’m the one who pulled you from the gutter when the CIA abandoned you. I’m the one who allows you to run a money laundering business for that kid of yours. Do exactly as I say or you’re fucked.”

  ****

  Barnaby Bloom led his visitor onto the back patio. The woman standing there, with her back turned, was feeding a doe that froze then scampered away when the patio door slid open.

  “I believe you’ve already met my colleague,” the professor said to Oliver Hitchcock.

  Elana Wu hesitated for a second, to add drama to the moment she had to admit to herself, then turned around, smiled, and extended her hand. Hitch grinned, accepting it in both of his. For the next two hours, the three of them talked through lunch and a large platter of chocolate chip cookies.

  “So that’s the story. I was ready to give up. Then this black Jew, Nagasi, Ethiopian from what I understand, popped into the picture.”

  “Quite so,” Barnaby said, then turned to Elana, who shrugged. She wasn’t sure how all this was going to play out but was concerned they all might be treading in deep water.

  “I think Elana and I will be of help. We will consider joining your team to save Christopher, if that’s possible. But let us give thought to how that will happen.”

  Barnaby then rose, and Elana followed suit thinking she could no longer feel the bottom of the pool. Hitch took their hint, following close behind the two of them as they crossed through the house and onto the porch out front. Before reaching Hitchcock’s car, Barnaby said his goodbyes to his visitor and let Elana walk him the rest of the way.

  “Oliver, you will forgive me?”

  “Pretty sure that was the first time a beautiful woman offered to pick up the tab then stiffed me.”

  “Oh. Do I owe you…”

  “Definitely, but not the tab. That’s been taken care of.”

  “Then you knew why I had to…”

  “I’m not that retired and certainly not feeble-minded.”

  She chuckled. He opened the car door.

  “Do you like pizza?” Hitch asked as he maneuvered behind the wheel.

  She flashed a curious but playful look, she hoped, and nodded. He smiled back and drove off under ominous clouds gathering overhead. As Elana watched him turn the corner, Barnaby joined her on the driveway.

  “He doesn’t realize you’ve just accepted him into the Cause,” she said, holding on to his arm with both of her hands as they walked back to the house. “He thinks you have agreed to become a member of his team of one.”

  “Quite so. Well, whether the drink flows into the pitcher or the pitcher falls into the drink, the pitcher will fill up. Besides, we need new blood, especially someone with a cause close to home, and a deadline.”

  “What if he compromises my work? I surely won’t be much help in the dungeons of China.”

  “From what I’ve learned, Oliver Hitchcock lives to survive. It’s an obsession. And now he’s obsessed with saving his grandson.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous man.”

  “Our people, the people I trust with my life, and yours, welcome him. That said, we need him for one very important reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “His connections. India and the old Jew, Nagasi, may be our last hope.”

  Elana wasn’t entirely sure where Barnaby’s scheme would lead but she trusted him with her life. He stood by her when everyone else said she was too young to make tenure, when everyone else said her Chinese roots, and belief in God, would sabotage their goal. He was there when her parents died and she had no one else to turn to. Besides, she wanted what they wanted, and for the same reason, for the sake of humanity. The church hadn’t totally brainwashed her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Oliver Hitchcock left Charlottesville on a high. When he first saw Elana Wu standing under the red umbrella everything fell into place. He was invited there to talk about the Click. Why hadn’t he figured that out earlier? Everything he learned about Barnaby Bloom from Julian begged him t
o reach that conclusion as soon as he received the invitation. Elana had been a student of Bloom’s, and an associate before the professor was forced to retire. But even had he made those connections, in his wildest imagination he could not have predicted he would be flying home with such allies on his team. What started out as a fight by one, a single grandfather, against the gods, had increased to three. The professor and his student were critical, most critical indeed, the three Musketeers and Julian, their d’Artagnan.

  He hadn’t driven more than twenty minutes when the sky began dumping waves of precipitation against his windshield. Nevertheless, he felt good, relaxed, as he hummed over the news on the radio. Suddenly what he heard got his attention.

  “…the Virginia senator is planning to ram the bill through with the full backing of the Cūtocracy. It requires all tax returns to include religious affiliation and actual church membership.”

  Hitch glanced in his rearview mirror and spotted a VAMA hearse coming up fast.

  “Senator Boudreau and like-minded followers believe the bill will withstand a constitutional challenge considering that eight of the nine justices on the court owe their allegiance to the Cūtocracy.”

  He quickly jumped onto the next exit ramp and accelerated, hoping to put more space between himself and his tail.

  “Everyone knows that the pagans are multiplying, particularly American Muslims and atheists, a scary thought for the Cūtocrats who rule the spiritual world. Obviously, they want to know who their enemies are and where they live…”

  Once again VAMA jumped into his rearview mirror, this time approaching much faster, soon filling up the entire mirror. Hitch slammed down the thrust controls on his brakes and watched the black hearse zip past him as he veered over.

  “…especially their enemies in the United States, the ones who could do the most harm.”

  He shut off the radio and was about to pull back onto the road when he saw through his windshield two tail lights race toward him. The VAMA hearse screeched to a stop and slid sideways. Seeing he was blocked in front, he dropped into reverse thrust, but then a quick glance in the mirror let him know he was going nowhere. A beige SUV came barreling up to his rear bumper. Bam! Clearly, there was no way out.