Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Scattered around Cyrus’s massive antique desk were dozens of lose scraps of paper. They were notes he used while writing. The practice was largely organizational. One of the benefits of his eidetic memory was virtually perfect recall of the contents of every piece of paper. Retaining information was easy. Organizing it and putting it to paper in a clear, concise manner was the challenge. The notes helped him plan the story and immerse himself in the content. The solitary experience of writing was something he enjoyed, particularly after a harrowing operation such as the one against the rouge police detectives.

  His desk faced the center of a largely empty office. Two small, sturdy wooden chairs faced the desk. They were also largely ceremonial. Few people knew he had a home office—let alone its location—so visitors were few and far between. The wall to Cyrus’s back was entirely covered in corkboard. That board was blanketed from end to end with thumbtacked photos, notes, and photocopied documents. But whereas his desktop was a functioning morass of the story he was currently engrossed in, the corkboard contained a series of more neatly arranged sections. Each segment was devoted to a story he was developing or monitoring in some way.

  Such was the life of a freelance writer.

  Cyrus tapped out the last few words of his story and took a long hard look at the screen of his laptop. Finally, he hit print. He always preferred to proofread a hardcopy. It was another ritual. The wall opposite his desk was dominated by a large bay window that overlooked the city street several stories below. A laser printer sat by the corner of the window. After a few moments it began to buzz with signs of life, the beginning of its warm-up routine.

  The door to his office was tucked in the far left corner. The remainder of the left wall and the entire right wall were dominated by floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves. The shelves were virtually packed end to end with hardcover volumes. He had collected them over the course of many years. He was a writer, but like most writers, he was first an avid reader. And every one of these books was one with which he had spent quality time. And again thanks to his photographic memory, virtually all of their imparted wisdom was squirreled away in some corner of his mind.

  He glanced at the checklist written on a notepad beside his MacBook Pro and ran through it one more time. The Los Angeles Times had picked up his story for their web edition. That was covered. In fact he had already submitted it via their website. The same went for a pair of newspapers in New York. One of those papers was running the story on its site and in the print edition. It was convoluted these days, each paper trying one scheme or another to shuffle readers either to or from the print version or web site. The only thing they seemed to know for sure was that they didn’t want their subscribers reading the other guy’s paper. The print world certainly wasn’t what it used to be. But that was why Cyrus was making a killing with investigative journalism. When he could break a big story, he could sell it all over the country. The papers were in chaos but they were still buying his work.

  Looking back at his list, he considered the additional stories that were sure to follow. Once the case made it to court, headlines would be made all over again. Plus he had already heard from Agent Shaw. Two of the four members of the kill squad had flipped on their mysterious fifth associate within an hour of being hauled into interrogation. The remaining two corroborated the fifth member’s identity before the day was out. Shaw hadn’t been forced to make hard choices when it came to cutting a deal. The FBI would seek a change of venue as Illinois didn’t currently support capital punishment. Cyrus wondered if it was the threat of the death penalty or just the promise of being placed in general population that had done the trick. Then again, for a Chicago cop going to prison, those options were likely one and the same.

  All in all, this was going to be a good month’s work. And Hondo was due compensation for his support on the roof a couple of days back. Cyrus knew the man would be offended if offered cash. Their relationship didn’t work that way. Fair enough. Cyrus had set up a college fund for Hondo’s four-year-old-daughter. He started it with a hefty deposit, and planned to contribute to it over time. Truth be told, freelance writing wasn’t even Cyrus’s bread and butter. It would be good to do something constructive with the extra money.

  The chime of the front door bell pulled Cyrus from his contemplation. It took a moment for him to realize the buzzer was his. It was almost never used. No one visited his home.

  Pressing the intercom button on the panel beside the front door, Cyrus answered simply, “Yes?”

  “Mister Cooper? My name is Allan Underwood. I’ve come to speak with you regarding Mister Walter Meade.”

  Cyrus felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Meade. This was unexpected, and he’d never heard of Allan Underwood. “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said after only a moment. “I don’t know a Walter Freed.” Why not mess with the last name? Maybe it would sell the lie.

  “Ah, no. I was told to expect as much,” the man chuckled. “Mister Cooper, I’m sorry for the intrusion. If I could have a moment of your time I’m sure I can explain everything.”

  Alright. He wasn’t going away that easily. Cyrus was going to have to see it through. “Ok. Come on up.” He hit the button to release the lock on the street level entrance out front.

  Cyrus returned to his desk where he saved the document that was still up on the computer’s screen. With a tap of the keyboard, he activated the software screen lock and secured the machine. Pulling out the top left desk drawer, he retrieved a 9mm Springfield. A quick check of the magazine and a press-check of the chamber confirmed it was locked and loaded. He stuck the gun down back of his jeans before grabbing a flannel shirt from the back of his office chair. Pulling it on, he headed back to the front door. The shirt would be enough to hide the gun but it wouldn’t get in the way if he needed to use it.

  A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Cyrus opened it to find a weathered old man in an expensive dark suit. The man was about five foot six and must have weighed 190 pounds. He was very nearly as big around as he was tall. It must have made for an interesting challenge for his tailor. Still, the man had kind eyes. The patient sort that hinted he was here to deliver bad news. Cyrus judged the man to be in his early seventies but he might have been off a decade one way or another.

  “Mister Cooper,” the old man said with an outstretched hand. It was a statement, not a question. He seemed to know Cyrus on sight and felt no need to confirm his identity. “I’m sorry I didn’t telephone first. My name is Allan Underwood. I’m the attorney for Professor Meade’s estate.”

  Tentatively, Cyrus shook the old man’s hand. “Estate? Ah…please, come in?”

  Cyrus showed Underwood into the office and over to one of the chairs opposite his desk. He sat in the matching chair, choosing not to take his customary place behind the desk. If this man was whom he claimed, this was a matter of some delicacy.

  “You said you’re a lawyer for Meade’s estate?” Cyrus asked cautiously, starting the conversation where they’d left off. “Am I to assume that Walter is…” He let the statement hang rather the finish it himself.

  “Oh, my! I’m sorry. You didn’t know! You haven’t heard?” Underwood looked aghast, as if he had just made the most unforgivable mistake in the business. “I’m so sorry—I suppose you wouldn’t have heard. Walter said you only spoke sporadically. I’m sorry, yes, he passed several weeks ago.”

  “Meade—err—Walter, he spoke of me?”

  “Oh, yes! Frequently!” The old man chuckled. His smile was warm and Cyrus could see something more there. A deep regard for Meade, perhaps? “We spoke often about a great many things. Your name often came up in conversation. I hope you know, Walter held you in very high regard?”

  This brought a grin from Cyrus. “Well, I don’t know about that. We didn’t know each other all that well. We’ve only spoken a few times. He was a very interesting old fellow. But I can’t say I knew him all that well.”

  In part this was true, but to a larger extent C
yrus wanted to vet Underwood’s knowledge of the old man and their relationship. Much of what he and Meade discussed was sensitive in nature and he wasn’t comfortable discussing Meade’s business with anyone. Walter Meade had told him things in confidence, some of it fairly outlandish and difficult to believe but private just the same. Cyrus had never been sure if the old man was on the level, off his rocker, or somewhere in between. But Walter Meade had been brilliant, there was never any question about that. And he certainly was a person of importance in Washington. Cyrus had witnessed a demonstration of that first hand. He’d never seen the wheels of bureaucracy move so swiftly as when Walter Meade had been in trouble. Still, he didn’t know Underwood and this could be a snipe hunt. Early in their relationship Meade had asked for discretion pertaining to their discussions and Cyrus would honor that. Information here would flow in only one direction. But if Meade had indeed passed, arrangements would need to be made.

  “Didn’t know each other all that well?” Underwood asked. He gave Cyrus a sly and appraising glance. “I was Walter’s friend first and his attorney second. He would dine at my home several times a month. He loved my wife’s cooking. Anyway, the way he told it, you had a mind that was uniquely open to the mysteries of the universe.”

  “That does sound like something Meade—err, Walter would say.”

  “Walter had access to the greatest minds of our time and he had some very interesting opinions in regards to each and everyone of them. It would have made for an amazing memoir,” he cast Cyrus a knowing glance. “Were such a thing not subject to treasonous consequences.”

  Ok, maybe this guy did know the old man as well as he claimed.

  “But of all these so called ‘great minds,’ he was most impressed with you! He said you were the only person he ever met that would see him when he would show up out of the blue, day or night. You would let him throw absurd hypotheses about, and you would converse with him as frankly as you would discuss the day’s weather. I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty. He was impressed that you never asked where he was getting his crazy ideas and never considered him mad for being serious about them.”

  Cyrus had to laugh. Ok, he was buying it. Underwood had him convinced, he surely must be a close friend to Meade if he knew about those conversations. His description was right on the money. It wasn’t uncommon for Meade to show up unannounced. And they would have lengthy discussions about the strangest subjects. But each and every talk seemed of vital importance to the old man so Cyrus dug into the meat of each matter and they would kick the issue of the day around. More often than not, when all was said and done, the old man left with that excited glint in his eye. That urgent and anxious look, like a kid who just woke up on Christmas morning. A kid who couldn’t wait to get downstairs and play with his new toys. Cyrus never really understood what it was all about, but the conversations were never dull and always proved to be an intellectual challenge.

  “He was just a crazy old man who had a very active imagination,” Cyrus concluded. He always suspected there was more to it, ever since the day they first met in Washington. Still, he had never broached the subject. He smiled thinking about DC. Had they really met that day? He was certain that Meade didn’t remember ever seeing him in the coffee shop. But after all that had happened, it had been the events of that afternoon that brought Walter Meade to Cyrus’s door. Fate was funny that way.

  “Yes,” the older man said. He rubbed his chin with a distracted, faraway look in his eyes. “He always suspected you might feel that way.” His eyes snapped back to the moment and he smiled at Cyrus. “Anyway, to the business at hand!

  “I’m seeing to Walter’s last will and testament. He has left you his modest estate in the mountains of Colorado.”

  Cyrus was taken aback. He leaned on the arm of his chair and considered Underwood’s statement. “That must be a mistake. Surely he had family or friends who—” He didn’t know how to continue. “He once mentioned a vacation property he had out in Colorado. He said it was his sanctuary. I got the impressing he really loved it there.”

  “That he did, my boy! He always said that he did his best thinking out there. But it wasn’t a vacation retreat. He lived there. It was his home. And certainly he had friends, but no surviving family. And he was very precise. He wanted you to have the property.”

  “His home? He lived there? The way he would pop up now and again, I assumed he lived here in the city. Colorado is quite a trek…and he wasn’t a young man…” Cyrus’s mind spun with the contradiction. Meade had a tendency to show up at his door randomly and unannounced. Cyrus could just as easily have been home as not. Would the man have traveled all the way from Colorado to make unannounced visits? Maybe he’d simply been in town on other business. But that often? And traveling so frequently at his advanced age? In truth, they had met more often than Cyrus has admitted to Underwood.

  Underwood watched Cyrus carefully. He could see the wheels moving as he considered the dichotomy of the scenario. “Yes,” he said simply, “Walter did love to travel.

  “In any case, Walter has left you the property in Colorado as well as a trust that will see to the payment of the taxes, insurance, and utilities for the next 100 years.”

  “Wait—Excuse me?”

  “Yes, Walter believed that his inheritance should not be a burden on those who accepted it. So, in your case he ensured that taking possession of the estate would place no financial burden upon you.”

  Wow… That did sound like the Walter Meade that Cyrus knew. Always thinking half a dozen steps ahead. Apparently, even in death.

  Cyrus could find no reason to refuse the property. As much as accepting this gift troubled him, it seemed that Meade had gone to great lengths to make it a done deal. “Well, I guess Walter has made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “Excellent! Walter hoped you would see it that way.” Underwood pushed himself up from the chair with some effort. “I shall email you the details within the hour. Walter left me your contact information.”

  Cyrus was still taking it all in as he walked the old lawyer to the door. Just before reaching it Underwood stopped and turned to Cyrus with a questioning glance. “If it’s not inappropriate of me,” he asked, “I’ve always wondered…how was it you had so many conversations with Walter without ever asking where it was all coming from?”

  “To be honest, I always suspected he was writing some sort of science-fiction. Some of the ideas would’ve made for great novels. I half expected a book to show up on my doorstep one day. He had that kind of flair. You know, a way with words—interesting mannerisms.” Cyrus cocked his head as he drifted in contemplative through, “eccentric tendencies.”

  “Ahh, you saw a kindred spirit!”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your novels! Walter loved your novels! He even sent me a copy every time one came out. I must admit, I’m more of a fan of mysteries but your science fiction is great fun. And my grandchildren are huge fans!”

  Cyrus was thunderstruck at the comment. “My novels? Walter knew about my books? What—How—I publish those under a pen name. No one knows I write those books. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to make sure no one knows I write those books!”

  “Ahh, yes,” Underwood laughed deep from his belly. “Well, again, that was Walter. He knew everything there was to know about the people he worked with. He needed to, in his line of work. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Truth be told, he was even a fan of your other series, the ones written under your other nom de plume. Though I think that had more to do with fatherly pride than actual appreciation for the genre.” With that, Underwood had yet another, much deeper laugh.

  “Oh no,” Cyrus muttered hanging his head. Crap. Crap! Crap! Crap! This was mortifying. No one was ever to trace that line of books back to him. That series was a persistent best seller and it accounted for the lion’s share of his income. He could retire off of that money today if he chose to. But it wasn’t the kind of writing that he would ever
be proud of. Certainly nothing he would share with friends.

  Underwood tamped his laugh down to a chuckle and slapped Cyrus on the shoulder. He saw the ashen look on the young man’s face. The lad was devastated. “Cheer up, my boy. My wife is your biggest fan! The best romance novels she’s ever read, she swears to it!”

  The old man turned and steeped out the door, before stopping to look back at Cyrus. He handed him a business card. “Not to worry. Your secret is safe with me,” he said with a wink.

  Oh god, Cyrus thought. He glanced at the business card. The phone number caught his attention due to the unusual format. He looked closer. The card showed Allan Underwood’s office address as London, England.

  Cyrus looked up to see Underwood already heading down the hall, halfway to the elevator. “Excuse me, Mister Underwood?”

  The old man turned.

  “This card has the address of your London office. Surely you have an address here in Chicago?”

  “I’m sorry, my boy. Just the one office. It’s just me. One tired old lawyer,” he said with a smile. “Not to worry, I shall email you the details as soon as I return to my hotel. Thank you for your time.”

  Cyrus’s mind was swimming as he stepped back into his apartment and closed the door. Again things were not making sense. First Meade was living in Colorado full time but dropping in on Cyrus in Chicago at random intervals. Now Meade’s good friend, Underwood, was saying that he had dinner with the man several times a month but Underwood’s office, and presumably his home, was in London, England? Meade was certainly eccentric but surely he was too old to be traveling so pervasively.

  Chapter 4