Antenna Syndrome

by Alan Annand

  “Yet he was playing at it...”

  “Just beginning to play. In some of his research notes, he’d sketched out some incredible prototypes – athletes with grasshopper legs to jump fifty feet, spies with moth-like antennae for super-sensitive hearing, fighter pilots with compound eyes for 360-degree vision.”

  “You really think that’s feasible?”

  “Six years ago, it probably wasn’t. But given the necessary financial resources and qualified staff trained to carry out his work, I shudder to think of where he might be today. There’s a new 3-D printer available now called the BioClone with which he could have built insect parts on a human scale. With his surgical skills and radiation treatment, he might have grafted insect components onto human bodies. Once he had a few fully functional hybrids, he could have then repeated the entire process on a production scale: taken an MRI scan of the hybrid to capture the template, built the appropriate palette of cells, than used a BioClone to clone the prototypes. He could have created a world of monsters.”

  “Could have...?” I said. “You might have destroyed his lab, but you didn’t destroy his vision.”

  “Please.” Yamazaki put his hands over his ears. “I have nightmares already.”

  Chapter 26

  I left the Silverman building and returned to my car on a block watched over by the Urban Angels, a volunteer group of unarmed citizens. The Urban Angels were descendants of the Guardian Angels, operating on the same principle of commitment to public safety, albeit with more technology at their disposal.

  Each wore a helmet with a rotating camera, and they patrolled their territories on bike or on foot. Subscribers tapped into the UA feed to get a sense of what was happening in their ‘hood or on a particular block patrolled by an Angel. They’d first become popular in student areas as a way to combat mugging and rape, but their range and utility had since expanded to many other parts of the city.

  I gave one of them some money and slipped behind the wheel just as my phone rang.

  “Mr. Savage, it’s Vivien Randall.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I just received a phone call from a man with a thick Russian accent. He has Marielle, but will release her if I do what he asks. He wants money. He’ll call again later with further instructions, but if I tell the police, I’ll never see Marielle alive again.”

  “How much did he ask for?”

  She told me. It was a lot, but not as much as I’d have thought, given her father was practically a millionaire.

  “That’s a bargain basement price.” This was either an amateur who didn’t know the value of a politician’s daughter, or a serious player for whom this was just an ante to a bigger pot. I assumed the latter.

  “What should I do?”

  “Did you get a number?”

  “There was nothing displayed.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “He went out earlier to run some errands.”

  “Secure the house. Don’t let anyone in until I arrive. Do you have a gun? Do you know how to use one?”

  “I know where Jack keeps them. What about the money? Should I go and get it?”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “When?” I heard the anxiety in her voice.

  I calculated the distance and likely traffic. “Within the hour.”

  I hung up and started the car, heading for the Williamsburg Bridge. I’d only got to 4th and Delancey when another call came in.

  “Savage? It’s Ron LeVeen. You asked me to let you know if anything ever showed up here for Crabner. So, funny thing – a first for Eddie, in fact – USPS just delivered a package for him.”

  “What is it?” I pulled over to the curb, not wanting to cross the bridge in case I needed to swing over to LeVeen’s sooner than later.

  “A small padded envelope.”

  “Don’t open it.” For all I knew, this could be another spider intended to kill anyone who knew Marielle.

  “Maybe it’s money. He owes me rent, remember?”

  “Tampering with the mail’s a felony.”

  “What are you, a lawyer? And who gives a shit about a law that only serves the interests of the government, not the people? The NSA’s been tapping our phones and reading our emails for over 40 years.”

  I heard a ripping sound of adhesive being pulled apart. I gritted my teeth and waited for the scream of a man bitten by a spider.

  “It’s a little flash drive the size of a fingernail,” LeVeen said, “Plus something wadded into a baggie.” A moment of silence. “What the fuck? A snotty tissue. Is this a joke?”

  “Now you’ve opened it, you might as well see what’s on the flash drive.”

  “What if it contains a virus? I’ve got investigative research and original scripts on my laptop, not to mention personal information. I’m not putting all that at risk.”

  “Don’t you have anti-virus software?”

  “Forget it. I’m not opening an unknown flash drive. You want to see what’s on it, stick it in your own computer.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right over.”

  “Not now. I was literally on my way out the door when USPS arrived. I’ve got a meeting uptown with the production head of CBX, a new cable network. Only reason I phoned is because I thought this’d be a 30-second call. My taxi’s here and I’ve gotta go.”

  “When are you back?”

  “End of day. Call me later.”

  “Put that flash drive somewhere safe,” I said but I don’t know if he even heard me as he hung up.

  Fuck. Double fuck and a half twist. I pounded my forehead on the steering wheel. It felt good but it did no good. I put the car in gear and entered the queue for the bridge.

  Once on the Brooklyn side, I called Vivien to update my ETA. No answer so I left a message saying I’d been delayed but was back on track.

  I headed out the Long Island Expressway, frustrated by the speed limit. Ever since they’d put in automated speed traps to identify our rides with VIN-tagged transponders, there was no way to beat a speeding ticket. And with so many speed monitors, I’d have run up a thousand bucks worth of fines on the way to East Massapequa.

  I’d just switched to southbound Seaford & Oyster Bay Expressway when another call came in.

  It was Vivien. “Sorry I missed your call. I was at the bank.”

  “What?” I made no effort to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I told you not to move until I got there.”

  “Things are under control. I’ve got a gun. I’ve got the money. I have to pay Marielle’s ransom. Otherwise, they’ll kill her.”

  “Are you nuts? That money’s just a test of faith. Once you’ve paid without notifying the police, they’ll ask for a second installment. Maybe even a third. You won’t get Marielle back that easily.”

  “You’re so cynical.”

  “In my business, you suspect everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “I’m sorry you think paying for her release is naive. It’s just that I’m responsible. I’m so worried for her. Where are you?”

  “About fifteen minutes away. Lock the doors and stay inside. I’ll be there soon.”

  Chapter 27

  I turned off the Sunrise Highway and took Lincoln Avenue into East Massapequa. When I entered the Jordan driveway, I saw the Volvo but no Tesla. Hansel and Gretel started pawing my car as soon as I parked. I lowered the window a few inches and talked to them until they settled down. After a few minutes I took my chances and put my hand out. Hansel licked it. I got out and rang the front door bell.

  Vivien opened the door with a pistol in hand. It was a SIG Sauer P232, a .32-caliber designed more for defense than offense. But I had a great respect for bullets, no matter what their size. She waved me inside and locked the door.

  “Is this how you greet a friend and ally?” I said, nodding at the gun.

  “Would you have preferred me with a martini in hand?”


  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  “Maybe later, once this is over.”

  This will never be over, I thought, but it was a pleasant illusion in which I indulged myself a moment. I followed her into the kitchen where she laid the pistol on the counter. “Where’s the money?” I said.

  She opened a shopping bag. Inside were bundles of fifty-dollar bills.

  “You said this might be just a first installment,” she said. “But for most people, it’s a lot of money. Maybe they’ll be happy with that.”

  “Maybe.” But hard times or not, desperate people would kill others for a fraction of this. I wanted to make sure she didn’t end up on the wrong side of that American dream.

  “What are our alternatives? Did you talk to Myers or Crabner?”

  I had to admit, good leads were scarcer than honesty at a used car dealership. “I talked to Myers.” I told her how he’d ended up in the toxicology ward of Bellevue. “Crabner’s still in the wind.”

  “Hmph.” She seemed disappointed with my performance.

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “He’d left before I got that phone call. He had business in the city.”

  “Did you tell him about the ransom demand?”

  “You heard him the other day. He doesn’t think it’s a kidnapping. He thinks Marielle just ran away.”

  “He could still be right.”

  “Anyway, there’s no way he’d let me make that payment.”

  “I’m advising against it too.”

  “If Marielle ends up dead, I’d never forgive myself. I’m sure she’d want me to do this.”

  “Easy to say when it’s her money.”

  “She never cared about money anyway.”

  I wished I could spend more time hanging out with people who didn’t care about money. Maybe some of their money would rub off on me.

  “Split a beer?” she said. “I need a drink but…”

  “Sure.”

  She took a Stella Artois from the fridge and split it between two glasses. We sat at the kitchen counter and nursed our beers. I often drank with clients, usually angry businessmen who’d been stiffed in some deal and wanted me to collect money on their behalf. This was nicer.

  The telephone rang. I signaled for her to wait. I tapped my iFocals to turn on the recorder and leaned over the counter. She pressed the button to put the phone on speaker.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Mrs. Randall?” I heard what sounded like a Russian accent, from a man who appeared to have a head cold speaking through a drainpipe.

  “Speaking.”

  “You have money?”

  “Yes. Where’s Marielle? Let me speak to her.”

  There was a pause. Then a shrill scream that seemed to last longer than it would normally take to empty a pair of lungs.

  Vivien’s face went white. She brought both hands to her mouth, perhaps to stifle her own scream.

  “She is not well, but alive,” the man said.

  “You bastard,” Vivien said. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Listen to me. You know Lake Ronkonkoma?”

  “Yes.”

  I knew it too. It was in the middle of Long Island, less than an hour’s drive from Massapequa.

  “Bring money. At north end of lake is boat club. Park there and wait. I will call you. Leave now.”

  Vivien put her gun in her purse and picked up the bag with the money. At the front door she whistled for the dogs. She put them inside, armed the alarm system and locked up. We got into my car, buckled up and headed out.

  “Who else besides Jack knew about Marielle’s disappearance? Her agent?”

  “I didn’t tell him yet. If he knew, he’d raise the prices on her paintings. Unless she’s really dead, that wouldn’t be right.”

  “But it’d mean a lot of money for you, wouldn’t it? I counted more than a dozen paintings in her studio.”

  “I don’t care about the money. I love Marielle like a daughter and I need her back home safe and sound. Just help me deliver this ransom. Don’t do anything that might jeopardize her safety.”

  I chewed on my tongue. Despite her professed love for Marielle, I had doubts about Vivien. She’d withheld information about Myers and Crabner. She’d insisted Marielle was happy at home despite a prison-like environment most people would have wanted to escape. She had access to Marielle’s bank account. And she was much too calm for someone now dealing with criminals.

  Chapter 28

  We arrived in Ronkonkoma at 1:30 PM and followed a country road to the north end of the lake. There were big houses hidden in the trees, and other lots where construction was underway. After many hurricanes, seaside property values had been beaten to their knees. Lakefront properties were now the favored real estate investment.

  The Ronkonkoma Boat Club was a two-story building with a deck overlooking a small marina, and a parking lot with two cars. We sat in the car and waited.

  After fifteen minutes, Vivien’s phone rang. She waited for me to turn on my recorder. She answered the call and put it on speaker. “Hello.”

  “Who is your friend?” said the same Russian voice as before.

  Shit! We were being watched. I scanned the area but saw no one. I lowered the sun visor and turned my face away from the windows.

  “Sorry,” Vivien said, “but I wasn’t going to drive way out here alone with this kind of money. What’s it matter? He’s not a cop.”

  There was silence at the other end.

  Vivien said, “Hello?” a few times, thinking she’d lost the connection.

  “Rent boat. Take money. Go to middle of lake. I will call you.” Something about his diction seemed false to me. Like someone faking a Russian accent.

  I put on sunglasses and a cap. I locked the car and we went into the boat club.

  The place was pretty near dead. There was a small wood-paneled lounge with a laminate countertop bar, and a door through which I could see an equipment room. It looked like the owner hadn’t spent any money on it in decades, probably waiting for an offer to sell out and retire. It was a great location. Any day now, a developer would tear it down and build a proper boat club here with condos for people who liked sailboats but were afraid of the open sea.

  We passed through the lounge. Out on the deck, two men were playing cards at a table. They had drinks, and one of them had a cigarette going.

  I stuck my head out the door. “Who’s minding the store?”

  The pair didn’t pay me any attention, too busy pegging points on a cribbage board. One guy was short and plump, with wrinkles in his brow that went up his forehead and over his bald dome. The other guy had a white-haired crew cut and tattoos with naked women and snakes writhing up his muscled arms.

  I approached their table. “I want to rent a boat.”

  “Motorboat or sailboat?” Muscles said.

  “Motor.”

  “Let’s go see what’s floating.”

  We followed Muscles back to the rental counter, and completed a transaction for a minimum run of an hour in a motorboat. He walked us down to the dock and boarded a fifteen-footer. The motor started promptly, farting gaseous bubbles. It was pretty self-evident but he showed me how to handle the controls. He climbed back onto the dock and gave us a salute. “Bon voyage.”

  I steadied Vivien as she boarded. We belted on lifejackets. I cast off the mooring line and opened the throttle. It only took five minutes to reach the middle of the lake. I cut the engine and we waited.

  In the distance I saw what looked like a pair of low-flying ducks approaching from the south end of the lake, but then they swung wide and circled north of us. Vivien’s phone rang. She answered it on speakerphone.

  “Place money loose in bundles on deck,” the faux Russian said. “Then wait.”

  Vivien stood and leaned over the windshield. She opened the shopping bag and laid the many bundles of money on the foredeck.

  We shifted aft to the rear seats and waited. I kept looking a
round, expecting a speedboat to make the pickup, but there wasn’t another craft on the water.

  I tapped the stem of my iFocals and toggled my way through a utilities menu. The v8.3 incorporated the digital equivalent of a Fresnel lens. Microscopic bands of each lens were temporarily “tinted” to create a diffraction grid that magnified images, at a distance like binoculars, or up close like a microscope.

  I scanned the horizon in binocular mode. Summer cottages lined the shore but the only boats I saw were moored. I saw people lounging on their docks and in their yards, but no one coming our way. I wondered if a scuba diver might make the pickup, but that seemed unlikely.

  Although maybe not as unlikely as what actually happened...

  They came skimming across the lake, a few feet above the water. At first I thought they were the ducks I’d seen earlier. As they got closer, I saw they were giant hornets, banded black and yellow, with huge iridescent eyes and rainbow-blurred cellophane wings.

  They slowed as they approached our boat and paused to hover off the bow about ten feet away. Something blinked between the compound eyes of the leader. A thin ray of light quickly scanned the bundles of money on the foredeck.

  The pair rose six feet and hovered in place, as if they were waiting for something.

  In a moment I saw the rest of the swarm coming. They came in single file, low to the water, approaching swiftly until they were twenty yards away. There were about two dozen of them. They halted as a group and hovered in place, as if awaiting some kind of signal from the two scouts.

  Again, a brief ray of light from the leader. One of the hornets darted forward and with its six legs clasped a bundle of money to its abdomen. It rose and flew off on a southerly heading. In a minute the other hornets picked up the rest of the money and headed across the lake.

  Only the two scouts remained. Again, a ray of light from the leader scanned the deck. Nothing remained. The two hornets rose six feet and shot off southwards.