by Estes, Danny
The Paranoid Thief
Danny Estes
Word Branch Publishing
Marble, NC USA
2014
This novel is dedicated to Patricia O’Reilly.
For without whose love, this book would never have been finished.
Chapter One
Randolph McCann crawled away from the smoldering wreckage of the cross-wired hover bike he’d stolen and shook his dizzy head. With considerable effort, he stood and tried to discern the glow of the stars above, over those swimming around in his eyes. The ride over the tree tops had been one wild scare, with peaks and eddies. Definitely more excitement than I needed, he thought to himself, then cleared his head of the obvious.
While his mind and body partly refused to talk to one another, both still living the past ten minutes, Randolph caught a momentary image of a tree amongst the hybrid bushes of Willing’s city park and stumbled over to sit his butt down before gravity took over.
I made a tactical error tonight, Randolph needlessly told himself, one which could have been detrimental to my well-being, if not to my freedom. With his head laid back against the tree, Randolph tried to focus on the pile of twisted aluminum which once resembled the latest achievement in aerodynamics. Perhaps it’s time for plan D, he mused as he gathered his wits. After all, the first three are history now, which means the job is history. Very problematic.
Randolph looked to one hand, which had balled up into a fist on its own. Mr. Hilden had trapped him into this doomed caper and left very little doubt as to what the results of a failure would bring about. While these thoughts presented themselves vividly before his mind’s eye, Randolph’s body begin to shake. A reasonable reaction. The shakes were not due to Mr. Hilden’s threats, but rather from Randolph’s heroic efforts to avoid being intertwined in the twisted metal some feet away.
Uncertain how long the shakes would last, Randolph wrapped his arms about his abused self, which at present was encased in a very illegal special-ops night suit he’d acquired for the job. A rather expensive acquisition, he reflected with regret, but as I had no time… Randolph laid his head back once more and swallowed. He closed his eyes and with some effort reconnected his scrambled thoughts with reality. Yep, time to cut the umbilical cord and find someplace to lay low, he told himself, “and I best get a move on.” He spoke the last aloud as if that would aid in his recovery. With more effort than he would admit, Randolph opened his eyes and used the tree for support in gaining his full height of five feet and nine inches. Not a real impressive height, his mind commented to redirect his thoughts from several painful abrasions, but one which allows more anonymity, which is useful for blending into crowds.
Once more on his feet, Randolph used an unsteady hand to pull off the black hood of the suit to better see; for the night vision had been rendered inoperable. As the hot, skin-tight material reluctantly came away from his head, the cool air of mid November rushed over his damp, clean-shaven face, and the scalp covered in closely-cropped hair which Randolph judged neither attractive nor repulsive.
Randolph took in a deep breath of clean, early morning air and exhaled a sigh of gratitude that he was no longer dependant on the suit’s chemical air system, an integrated part of the suit’s stealth system, which he had no need of. But then again, one never knows.
He pushed away from the tree and moved a bit unsteadily in circles until his land lover legs quit wobbling about as if he were a toddler on his first steps of life’s adventures. “I’ve been far more than lucky tonight,” he vocalized the blindingly obvious. “With only two weeks to scope out the security measures of that three story mansion, my efforts to pull off this job were far more than epic.” Randolph paused in his commentary and searched out the zipper to the suit. If only I could have backed out of the job. If only Mr. Hilden had listened to me. Now nobody wins, Randolph argued to no one but himself, while he carefully stripped out of the outfit on steadier legs. Now the package I’d been sent in for will go to the corporate authorities as forewarned and there’s nothing Mr. Hilden can do to stop it. Randolph’s latest target, the Henderson’s, lived in the city of Willing, located on the lower tip of what was Arkansas before the inventor of plastic-steel, Mr. Luashess, single-handedly bought Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana, then renamed them as the single state of Luashess. As Mr. Henderson, an executive officer for the Badding firm and Ms. Henderson, a highly paid lawyer in legal documentation, a pair of very intelligent individuals, will definitely surmise rightly what tonight’s failed escapade was all about.
Now that his wobbly legs were responding reasonably well, Randolph stretched his back muscles to work out any leftover kinks and said firmly to himself, “To hell with it.” Without any regrets, Randolph wadded up the lightweight material which had cost over 30,000 credits to acquire and disposed of the suit onto the heap of smoldering aluminum and fiberglass like it were nothing more than a pile of old rags.
“I told that blackmailing, pompous city official I wasn't suited for dirty in-and-out jobs,” Randolph argued aloud to the hybrid self-maintaining vegetation, while he extracted a saddle bag from the back of the bike. With contempt for this century’s security lock, deemed adequate on all business travel bags, he opened and drew out a white and blue jogging suit and continued to berate Mr. Hilden. “If that self inflated ego had only listened. If he had hired people who do this type of stuff, if, if, if,” he told the park’s vegetation and miniature inhabitants in anger, now that they had overcome their fright of his unannounced arrival.
After a moment more, Randolph forced himself to stop his unfruitful ranting and took in a deep breath of the earthy incense around him. As fall covered the land, this meant the aromatic scents in the air was not of sweet flowers and new growth, but rather the heady smells of bark and rotting vegetation. A distinct difference some people found objectionable. For Randolph, however, this meant the rebirth of wet weather, a distinct advantage in his chosen profession, as the migration of water molecules helped to dilute any leftover DNA. And as he found a hint of moisture on the air, this helped in his bid for composure. After another breath to reinforce his thoughts of impending rain, Randolph slowed his flustered mind and reasoned his anger was a combination of fear and uncertainty. A knowledge Randolph used to reclaim a calmer state of mind. Well mostly, he admitted to himself. A few breaths more and he focused his mind on plan D, outlining its conception in his head. First, get back to the workshop, he began to tic them off. Second, eliminate any equipment that could point fingers at my style of operation. Third, leave the state of Luashess by any means possible. Simple really…perhaps, he reminded himself. If there was one virtue Randolph had plenty of, it was his grasp on reality. He knew very well Mr. Hilden had a band of muscle men watching his every move, a fact which had not escaped him from the moment Mr. Hilden introduced his right-hand man, Mr. Stanton. The proverbial brick-wall in human form, who walked in Mr. Hilden’s office dressed in a top of the line Harmanii business suit. Geez, Randolph remembered thinking, the man’s mug alone could stop someone's heart, making his over-large hands rather redundant.
A sound in the distance caused Randolph to cock his head. “Sirens,” he told himself and searched the skyline above the trees for the direction of the city’s air patrol cars.
Whether they were after him or not, Randolph felt he’d rambled on long enough. Time to get moving. With a look in the other side of the saddle bag, Randolph removed a small round plastic pouch and discarded the empty bag with the rest of the present evidence to his attempted crime on the aerial-bike. Randolph rotated his head on his shoulders in an effort to work out one last kink before he activated the DNA scrambler’s fifteen second timer he’d built from a simple two-credit watch. He walked away, tossin
g the bag of common household chemicals on the pile. After a short walk, Randolph heard the charge go poof, which meant the small explosive sent out a spray of chemicals that would render all surrounding DNA unusable for police labs and dogs alike, a fairly indispensable homemade device for his kind of career.
Uncertain of his current location, Randolph took a look at his compass watch, which showed him via satellite a small rendering of the 20 mile radius park. With an idea of where he stood, Randolph redirected his feet, heading for the jogger’s path which he’d used this past week to make him appear as a new regular. Precautions like this are always necessary to help in any alibi which may be needed if some unforeseen problem should arise, like now for instance.
Although he was early for his daily run by an hour and twenty minutes, Randolph couldn’t wait-out the extra time in the park. Mr. Stanton would awaken shortly, if he hadn’t already, and be on the road to intercept him at his base of operations. So a variation of his alibi had to be improvised if he ran into trouble.
When the illuminated jogger’s path became easier to discern in the darkness, Randolph stopped his jog through the woods to await a clear gap of early users. This precaution would insure no one saw him enter by the woods, making him just another runner. But as no one could say they had seen him in their run, Randolph forced himself to slow a bit, so as to be seen by others before he continued his run at a normal pace.
As Randolph worked out annoyed muscles, damaged slightly from his sudden unplanned stop, he allowed a small smile to touch his lips, knowing his preparations has covered his tracks. But he wasn’t out of the woods yet, literally, he told himself as he rounded a hill. For up ahead, a little before the exit to the city’s park was a hastily erected police checkpoint.
Man, these people are fast! Randolph thought to himself, but as his run and outfit would aid the officers very little in discerning his involvement in any crime, he felt relatively safe. Besides, he told himself to bolster his confidence, check points are only glorified shows of force, built solely to mollify the mundane city dwellers and no threat to anyone other than the inexperienced thief.
Randolph allowed these thoughts to trail off as he drew near the post, never even considering any abrupt change in course. Because something as plainly incriminating as that would have the police chasing you down in no time. So jogging up on the station like any innocent bystander, Randolph pressed his lips firm to look irritated on the inconvenience to his run. With an eye to normality, he also began a conversation with a fellow runner who had been ahead of him, playing up on his part of just another average citizen. As he questioned the man on the reason for police presence, Randolph paid a token curiosity to the structure’s video-cameras, multi-directional microphones, and voice commanded search lights, while inwardly he fidgeted on the lost time as the officers worked though the early morning crowd.
When Randolph was finally signaled he was next, he walked up to the decently-built female officer, whose facial structure was greatly mired by her look of constipation. With a quick eye for even the smallest detail, Randolph stopped on the hastily painted white line as directed by an unmistakable large sign on her booth and heard her snap in a no nonsense voice, “Name?”
“Bill Lenton,” Randolph lied with practiced ease.
“Occupation?” she asked as she swept him over with an electric detection wand that only beeped on his watch, which she motioned for him to remove so it may be more thoroughly inspected.
“Sales rep for Pro Tip Produce,” Randolph said with smoothness, pulling out his wallet to hand her a business card like any pushy business man might have. The woman took the card and his wallet simultaneously, then read the card, checking both sides.
“I see,” she said out of boredom to the routine. “Where from?”
“Uh...Lexfunt, south of Portbay City, by the Great Lakes,” Randolph added as if out of habit.
“Hmm,” she remarked without interest while she pulled out all his fake ID cards and other paraphernalia a traveling sales rep might have. With a non-curious look to each item, she laid each down on her counter so the video-camera could imprint them on file. Once the wallet was empty and the video-camera had its time, she picked up his ID card with a fairly good picture of Randolph’s long face, short stubby nose, average chin and hair style. “What are you doing so far from home, and specifically why are you out in the park so early on this particular morning?” She locked her eyes on his.
A pro, Randolph omitted, his opinion of her rising; definitely a pro, for the woman was watching his eyes to see which way they rolled up when he told his likely story. But as he had already run through the reason a few times in his brief run, Randolph began his fib with no uncertainty. “I’ve been visiting the stores nearby, demonstrating our product’s differences but today I’ve a big pitch to give to a larger corporation, so I’m out early for a jog to loosen up before the meeting.”
She sat his ID card down and nodded, as if she accepted his lie, then asked with some hardness. “Can you then explain the cut and bruise on your left temple?”
“Wha...?” Randolph reacted in surprise and reached up to touch his forehead. He winced from the light pressure on the damaged skin and his fingers came away with sticky wetness. Of all the stupidity! he angrily admonished himself, I should have known to have given my forehead a ‘look see’ when my temple began to throb. A small error like this could delay him even more, if he couldn’t come up with a plausible lie in seconds. So he touched the area once more to hide any showing expressions and thought furiously.
“Well?” the woman prompted with impatience, apparently sensing she’d caught him in some illicit act, but whether that was a crime or not remained to be seen.
As Randolph sought out a plausible story, his eyes fell on the two bulges in her shirt which caused his animal instincts to wonder of their true size, shape and firmness. This distraction in the back of his mind brought forward a simple but typical male answer. With a quick mind to seize on such a simple story, Randolph ducked his head to look sheepish and replied, “Well, you see...” he stretched his words to sound embarrassed. “I came up on a nice looking woman, and well…” Randolph gave a hesitant laugh. “When I passed her by, my eyes stayed on her instead the tree I ran into.”
“Uh-huh, and you expect me to believe that?” Her face radiated skepticism.
“Honest, Officer McCormick,” Randolph added after he caught her name tag and pulled out a handkerchief to mop his temple, just remembering the throb on his forehead before he touched it.
“All right Mr. Lenton, come clean. Tell me the whole story and your lawyer will be able to say you cooperated with the police at your trial.”
“Trial? For what? Running into a damn tree because I like women?” Randolph blurted with the knowledge she was only using entrapment tactics.
“Last chance, Mr. Lenton,” she warned, signaling her back-up to step closer, an intimidation gambit to get him to bolt for the trees or foul-up his story.
“But I didn’t do anything!” Randolph said excitedly, not falling for it, purposely drawing attention from the other joggers, whose faces he surmised held looks in varies degrees of curiosity to insecurity.
“Very well Mr. Lenton,” the officer said with hardness. Then she leaned toward him, her body language all about intimidation. “You had your chance. We’ve got your name and pic ID. Should a woman report being molested and pick out your ID, ten years will be added to your sentence for police evasion.” With a motion of her hand for him to pick up his articles, the woman looked down on her screen for any last minute warrants for his arrest. When she found none, the officer motioned Randolph could go, as she held no evidence to hold him on any crime. “You may wish to have a doc look at your forehead before operating any vehicles, Mr. Lenton,” she said as he passed.
“Thanks Officer,” Randolph responded in ill humor as his act demanded, refilling his wallet, very much pleased with his performance while she fished for the wrong reactions.
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In a few steps Randolph exited the park and checked the time under the halo of a sun lamp. “2:47 a.m.,” he mumbled. The skimmer-port won’t open for another three hours yet. It’ll be time enough to tie up loose ends. With a sigh to resettle his nerves, Randolph tilted his face skywards to feel the moist drizzle in the air. Then after a couple of breathes, he looked down on his wrist watch and tapped its liquid crystal to bring up the avenues of approach to his present office. With one more tap, the watch showed him all the pathways to his office, which revealed one pathway he’d purposely left untraveled, with turns galore that would throw off any unwanted followers. With a causal look about, to make certain of no police surveillance, Randolph set his feet in motion along the near-deserted avenue.
When his first turn came, Randolph ducked into the alleyway with the knowledge no eyes could follow him in without exposing themselves. Now alone from even the regular foot traffic, Randolph jogged to the other end and stopped only momentarily to unzip and zip his jogging suit at key points to change its colors. Clad now in a black over blue jogging suit, Randolph walked out of the darkened shadows and kept track of his location with more scrutiny.
When at last Randolph came within sight of his place of operation, he slowed his hurried steps and watched everything. For now he had to be the paranoid thief he always was, as it was here all his preventive measures would either see him through or...Hmm.
Randolph flattened himself on an office wall and reasoned out why he must take this risk. With the air bike’s systems all but fried in my hasty retreat, I held no chance in redirecting the bike to my hidden stash of clothes and hard credits elsewhere in the city. But as Randolph was an accomplished pick pocket, this was really not a problem. What in truth was driving him back here was the evidence which could be gleaned from some of his equipment. Really nothing the police don’t already have, Randolph argued, but there are one or two items I’d rather not leave for Mr. Hilden. The man was too well connected. And knowing him, he would use them to assassinate my character. This in turn might step up police involvement or deter any others from seeking out my services. Four or five other reasons were worth the risk of running back into the building. But are they truly worth risking my life over? With a turn of his head, Randolph scanned left, right and all directions in-between. But no matter how hard he looked, the stone facing at ground level and the street out front looked unimposing. But what of the three lit windows? He didn’t even contemplate the hundred or so darkened windows in his inquiry, least he drive himself to distraction. With an eye on the three windows from his concealment, their angle to his office and the front doors seemed too severe for an assassin to attempt this one opportunity. That is, if I’m worth the price of a competent assassin, Randolph corrected his reasoning, but once inside the office building I’d be relatively safe, as no one without an access card could get in, legally. Then again, Mr. Stanton didn’t have the look of a man the least bit worried of breaking minor laws.