Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  “Smart ass. Okay, Sims and I are going to sleep here tonight. We’ve got a lot of work to do, but I’ll be home sometime tomorrow, okay? Need anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Going to stay at Christina’s tonight or vice versa and will be home in the morning.”

  “K, love you.”

  “Love ya too.” Kat clicked off and his phone rang again. Wagner.

  “Popular guy,” Sims said.

  Russell answered the phone and put it on speaker so Sims could hear. “Go for Russell and Sims. You’re on speaker, Wags.”

  Wagner came on the line, sounding excited. “We got into that boat house.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “It’s not what. It’s who.”

  Chapter 9

  Frankie had always been an early riser, even during the summer when the sun rose around 5:00AM. For as long as John had known him, Frankie was always up and moving, working on some sort of project. Whether they were pointless chores or horticultural activities, Frankie was a working old man with the energy of a child, going sometimes from dawn until dusk on whatever task needed finishing. He also had an obsessive quality about him, fixating on certain problems and working on a solution, regardless of complexity, and would sometimes make the simplest task more complex.

  One of those projects was his 1976 International Scout II Rally-e hardtop. Not the best 4x4 out there, but Frankie had owned this vehicle since John was a teenager. It would always break down, and, against the rumblings and complaining of Helen, he refused to give it up, taking each needed repair as an excuse for an upgrade. As it stood, the silver Scout was in better shape now than it had been when it was first bought by Frankie.

  They arrived in the Scout at the south end of Myrtle Edwards Park where the Pot Luck Festival was taking place. They had taken their time getting there, listening to the Doors with the top down and enjoying the cool Saturday morning with the sun at their backs.

  Myrtle Edwards Park was a long and thin park, with Puget Sound on its west border and railroad tracks and downtown Seattle on its east. There was an urban trail that snaked through the entire park from south to north, but was closed off for Pot Luck to allow vehicle access for vendors. Right next to the entrance was a small concrete park hosting a dual fountain and some stone seats. It was manned by a heavyset man who looked like a Blues Travelers roadie with a clipboard and official Pot Luck badge hanging from black lanyard with small marijuana leaves printed on it. He was wearing a dark brown fishing hat, rounded sunglasses and brown canvas overalls with a light denim shirt.

  John pulled the Scout up to the trail and the roadie walked up to him.

  “Vendor or guest?”

  Frankie leaned across the center of the vehicle, his long gray hair and beard brushing against John, and spoke loudly, as if he were having to talk to an old speaker at a drive-thru window. “Vendor!”

  John smiled, leaned back and looked over to Frankie. “Jesus Christ, Frankie, he can hear you. You have the top off.”

  Frankie looked at the roadie then up at the sky, as if to make sure the top was, in fact, off. “Oh. Right.” He sat back down in his seat and put his seat belt on.

  John shook his head and looked at the roadie with an I’m-sorry-about-this look.

  The roadie smiled through his small circular sunglasses, the small sheen of sweat on his face amplifying his smooth features. “No problem, my friend. Name?”

  “Frankie Wells.”

  Roadie looked down at his clipboard, running his fat finger down from the top and stopped midway through. He looked back to Frankie and said, “Wait. The Frankie Wells?” Frankie just stared at Roadie so he continued. “Frankie’s Tanks? Mr. Weed?” Roadie’s brow kept rising with each word, as did his voice, in hopes Frankie was, in fact, the Frankie Wells.

  “The one and only!” Once again, Frankie leaned across the center in drive-thru mode. Frankie had a fan.

  “Man, dude, I love your shirts and weed! Best weed ever, man. You’re like…a legend…it’s an honor to see you,” Roadie said, leaning in a bit closer. With Frankie leaning from the other side, they were both crowding John. “Say, you still make those bongs and vape tanks?”

  “I sure as hell do!” Frankie was smiling from ear-to-ear. He had a new friend.

  “Well, I might just have to meander on down to your space, which is number fifty-three, by the way, right by the breezeway, great spot and all…” Roadie stopped talking, seeming to forget what he was saying, then picked right back up and continued, “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any…uh…you know…something to share, would you? I mean, we’re not supposed to ask and it’s cool if you don’t, but your Sativa strains are some of the best. Man, I remember this one time…”

  John saw Frankie’s arm shoot straight across his plane of vision, a brand new joint cradled in his fingers. “You bet!” Frankie interrupted.

  “…we…oh, thanks, man!” Roadie grabbed it and looked around nervously, trying his best at cloak and dagger. He put the joint in his shirt pocket, where it disappeared into the large cloth space, which he patted three times. “You the man, Frankie!”

  John heard a honk and saw about ten cars behind them. “Well, we should probably get there, huh, guys?” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “Got quite a backup.” He put the Scout in gear to accent the point.

  “Right, right. Okay.” Roadie back away, smiled and waved as he summoned the next car to approach him.

  John shook his head and looked at Frankie. “Famous Frankie.”

  Frankie gave a noncommittal shrug, trying to play it off, and it would have worked, were it not for his beaming smile.

  John drove several hundred feet and came up to the exit from the breezeway. He looked to his left, seeing several pieces of paper with numbers on them spread throughout the park, each one signifying a stall number.

  He found their space right by the exit of the breezeway. Frankie jumped out and walked toward the back, opened the tailgate and got to work, that obsessive work ethic kicking into gear.

  John got out to help unload, and, with both of them working, they were able to empty the Scout in just under ten minutes.

  Frankie came around and said, “So, I’m going to take the Scout and go park it. Would you mind getting started with the tent? I have to stop by the office to get the schedule and map and all that. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “You bet. Take your time. This’ll be done in no time, not much to do.”

  Frankie waved, got in the Scout and left the way he came, going in reverse most of the way.

  John opened the boxes and took out the tent and tables. He set them up, while taking the opportunity to look around. The main stage was already constructed and its back was to the water, due west of where he was standing. He figured that was where Vinny would have his stage set up. It also provided the most grass space for crowds, fans, and onlookers, and made sense for a location.

  He turned a full circle to survey the entire area. He tried to picture Vinny standing on the stage, walking back and forth in choreographed steps, using physical motion, talking with his hands, making every attempt to hypnotize the crowd with his animated movements and speech, his sheep eating it up, waiting for the help that would never come.

  John looked east and south across the railroad tracks that were separated from both the park and downtown by a thirty-foot wire fence that ran the entire length of the park. Just beyond the tracks to the east was the start of downtown Seattle and three large buildings that fronted Western Avenue. Each building was about fifteen stories high and provided ample viewing of Myrtle Edwards Park. The southernmost building was the old newspaper building, its faux-globe fixated on top of the roof. The next building to the north was a glass rectangle lying on its side, a shot probability of zero.

  He focused on the next building and noticed it was due east of the stage. It was around fifteen stories as well, and the higher up you went, the less square footage it had, trying its best to create a slight pyrami
d. It had glass fronts as well, but he noticed that several of the windows in various floors had vacancy signs with a phone number below for leasing information.

  Perfect.

  There was a mix of construction equipment with the familiar orange netting surrounding the entire building at the ground level, telling John that some of the building was under construction, providing the opportunity for a possible disguise he could use to gain access. John just had to figure out a way to get inside today.

  “John, my love!” An older angelic voice resonated behind him.

  John turned around and saw an older, yet youthful woman, arms in the air, hands adorned with clay jewelry, waving toward him. Her outfit was made of hemp with flower patterns dyed into the fabric, with every color of the spectrum finding its place on her long skirt.

  “Lady Cupid, how are you?” Linda. She had known Frankie for years and he always called her by her given name, whereas John knew her by her chosen “healing” name. She was a clairvoyant and medium who focused on all things organic, including not showering, unless it involved a freshwater stream or pond. She claimed to talk with spirits and see auras around people, thus channeling their power to heal. Sometimes it worked, allegedly, but John always wondered about the placebo effect.

  She stopped in front of John, her shoulders sagging, looking weathered. There was a hesitation and her eyes seemed to scan John, probing his soul. “I’m fine,” she said. She looked down. John didn’t know if his soul was at his feet or if she was avoiding eye contact. “Just have a bad feeling is all.” She waved her hand up and behind her and continued, “Don’t get me wrong, this is one of my favorite times of the year, but I can’t keep certain thoughts and voices out. Just bad auras and all. Normally I’d see beautiful colors around people, but all I’m seeing is grays and blacks with a few purples mixed in.”

  John had no idea what she was talking about, but he humored her nonetheless. He nodded his head. “Well, if there’s any healing that needs to be done, I’m sure you’re the person to do it. Always have been. That’s why we love you.” He bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. She looked behind her toward her tent that had already been set up, tables with pamphlets and little vials of earthly oils at the front. She turned back to John, put one hand on each of his arms, leaned in and said, “Take care, John. I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” She gave him a look like a mother would when seeing her son off to war.

  John watched her walk inside her tent and disappear.

  “I’ve always loved that woman. So full of hope and naiveté. It must be nice to be so oblivious to all the shit in the world.” John turned around and saw Morgan standing by Frankie’s tent. His pale cheeks were flushed red, accenting his freckles, his pink Mohawk listing a bit to his left. He stood proudly with his arms crossed, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and black kilt with black Danner boots.

  “When did you get here?” John asked.

  “Just now.”

  “I thought Steve didn’t work ‘till later. He get called in early?”

  “No. I walked from his place. Left about an hour ago.”

  “Something happen?”

  “We broke up.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  Morgan waved it off. “It’s nothing. He was pissed because he wanted to go to brunch with some friends and thought it would be nice to go, but I told him I already had plans with you and that set off the whole jealousy thing. Again.”

  John sighed. “Ah, shit, man, I’m sorry. I feel responsible.”

  Morgan shook his head and said, “Don’t. There’s plenty of Morgan to go around and he needs to understand that. We don’t live together nor am I just for him. I told him if he couldn’t accept that, then it wasn’t going to work. He opened the door and let me out.” He shrugged. “That was it.”

  Morgan tried to brush it off but John could tell it was bothering him. He loved Steve and Steve loved him, so it pained John to see his best friend masking his pain. He was thinking of what else to say, but with Morgan, you had to choose your words carefully. Instead, he looked out at the water, noticing several boats in the area waiting to hear the music that would be playing soon.

  Morgan unslung his bag, reached in and pulled out two pairs of ear buds and two collar mics. He handed one set to John. “Here.”

  John knew Morgan wanted to get Steve off his mind and he was happy to oblige when it meant hurrying up and getting the scouting done. “As soon as Frankie gets back, we can head out.”

  “What about me?” Frankie came walking back from Linda’s tent, carrying a large Red Bull can in each hand, a little more pep in each step.

  “Morgan and I wanted to head out and check stuff out but didn’t want to leave the tent. Speaking of which, I’ve got everything set up except the products. I figured I’d let you do it, since you know where all your stuff goes.”

  “Appreciate it.” Frankie popped the top of the second can of Red Bull and took a long pull. He held it up in mock salute. “Go on now, boys, do your thing. The Legend has got it from here.”

  Morgan tilted his head and looked at John. “Legend?”

  John put his hand up. “Don’t ask. Let’s go.” He grabbed his bag, opened it up and checked inside to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything prior to leaving. He saw his Leupold rifle scope, binoculars, burner cell phone, power bars, water bottles, knife and various other items packed neatly inside.

  As they left, John looked back toward the tents. Frankie had disappeared inside, but Linda was leaning against one of her tent posts, arms crossed, staring at John. They locked eyes for several seconds and Linda settled for a subtle nod, walked back inside, and left John to himself. He turned back around and patted his hip, feeling the hardness of the Springfield XD and spare magazines he had holstered to his waist. It should have made him feel better, but for some reason it made it him feel worse.

  Chapter 10

  Elliott Bay was one of the busiest ports in the United States and was Seattle’s waterway to the Pacific Ocean. That meant cargo ships coming from and going to other points of origin seemed to occupy its waters every hour of every day. Even on this Saturday morning, cargo ships, pleasure craft, and ferries were screaming past each other as they made their way to their destinations, fulfilling their role in the world’s economy to keep capitalism and free trade alive and well.

  Each ship and boat carried passengers, whether employees or tourists, and when they docked, Seattle would get a handful of potential dollars dumped into its local economy. Seattle knew this and had decided to make the waterfront more than accommodating.

  Elliott Bay stretched from West Point in Discovery Park in the north, all the way down to Alki Point in West Seattle, with a smattering of shipping terminal docks, parks, and tourist piers, occupied by restaurants, shops, and fair rides to keep the tourists and visitors happy and fed. The entire Seattle metro area seemed to build its skyscrapers from south to north in order to accommodate these seafaring travelers, by creating a beautiful skyline littered with glass-fronted buildings reflecting the orange light back onto their faces during the summer sunsets.

  Redmond stood on the port side of their crudely painted patrol boat and stared at the coastline of Seattle. He worked his binoculars to the south and zeroed in on Myrtle Edwards Park due west of them. He knew that today was the first day of a weekend celebration of marijuana where all the potheads, hippies, and detritus of society comingled in a display of idiocy. And Seattle seemed to welcome it with open arms. This didn’t surprise Redmond, as Seattle had always been a hotbed of liberal scum and socialists, their leaders clamoring for higher taxes, more laws, social justice and other pointless avenues of rage.

  He laughed to himself at the thought of what was to come and how the stoners would react, breathing in the virus and looking desperately around with their hands reaching out for help, stupid looks on their faces as their bodies and minds transformed into something they couldn’t control. Don’t worry, Redmond thought, this is an equal opportunity viru
s.

  The boat started gently rocking back and forth, forcing Redmond to counter-balance himself to keep the binoculars steady. The sound of a ferry going by rumbled in his left ear, changing pitch and volume as it worked its way west.

  There were three points of entry into the park from the north, the south, and from the northeast via a breezeway that crossed over the railroad tracks, paralleling the entire length of the park. That troubled him because once the virus was dispersed, those affected would have just three ways to escape and thus spread the virus. He was hopeful that the majority wouldn’t climb the high fence to get to the tracks, cross them, then have to climb another high fence as a means to escape, but he wasn’t confident they wouldn’t either.

  The foot traffic had picked up significantly since he last looked ten minutes ago, and he noticed that more tents were up. He focused on the people, wondering who the weak ones were and who would be the first to go. He saw several white bohemian wannabes, a bunch of teenagers with pants down around their asses, and old hippies with unkempt hair and beards, trying as hard as they could to hold onto their Woodstock days, tie-dyed shirts ‘n’ all.

  Redmond saw a large muscular man who looked out of place, wearing a flannel shirt and khaki pants. Probably an undercover cop trying to pass himself off as an ordinary guy, he thought. His eyes were scanning the entire area, almost automatically, as if he’d done it before, hands out of his pockets. He had a confident gait about him, telling anyone around him that he could handle himself. He was walking with a smaller wiry guy with a pink Mohawk and a cast on his right hand, and if he were an undercover cop, he was doing a much better job of blending in. The Mohawk guy walked to the stage and disappeared out of view, while the larger man continued east toward the breezeway, which was jam-packed full of people walking into the park.

  Redmond looked down at his watch. 9:45AM. In just over two hours, the virus would be unleashed and hell would start. He smiled to himself, thinking of the chaos they were about to create. If all went as planned, the offshore winds would carry the virus up the hillside to the east, infecting anyone in its path. As they raced back to Stump Island, Seattle and every other major city in the country would be experiencing their own Armageddon.