by Al Turner
If they didn’t find anything useful there, they could always journey to San Antonio. Carson suggested they split up and hit both areas at the same time, but Joe insisted they not be split up for too long. Both Tripp and Daniel sided with Joe’s wisdom.
Daniel used Mark’s key fob to search the dark streets until he spotted the flashing lights of Mark’s Ford Mustang. He, along with Tripp and Joe, inspected the car, but it was clean. On their return, Daniel handed Wanda the key and Mark’s two phones.
“Don’t answer either phone,” Daniel said. “Just drive around town, Wanda. Let us know if anyone follows you. If so, ditch the car and get out of there.”
“Like hell,” Wanda said, grabbing the key from his hand. “I might as well keep that baby.”
“Lady, don’t let your greed get you killed. You’re driving around in Mark’s car with his phones. Anyone tracking him will actually be tracking you.”
“Please try to buy us some time without putting yourself in harm’s way,” Tripp said. “It’s enough to simply confuse any pursuers.”
After hugs and goodbyes, three cars left the dimly lit street in front of the cemetery. Joe’s green Camaro headed west on Highway 10, taking them through Houston first. Carson’s white Jeep also headed west on Highway 10 but would cut north on Highway 49 once she and Tripp reached Lafayette. Wanda took Mark’s car.
***
Wanda begrudgingly decided to head south until she grew tired or bored, whichever came first. Soon after she began her journey, fatigue set in. She needed something with caffeine to stay awake. She finally decided on a place she could go at that hour and still find a friendly face. She plotted a course to the French Quarter.
She searched her phone’s contact list, selected the name “Jake,” and waited for an answer. Instead, she received the man’s voice mail.
“Jake, it’s Wanda. I’m heading your way, assuming you work tonight. I thought you’d enjoy a little company.”
Wanda hung up and continued. A casino in the French Quarter was the perfect place to hide out. There were a lot of people around, including cops. She didn’t particularly like the police but figured they might come in handy should any unsavory characters show up. Jake worked the graveyard shift, so she wouldn’t be bored all night. He might even offer her a place to stay. His gain and Joe’s loss, she thought.
As she arrived, she picked the best parking she could find. It was no skin off her teeth, since any parking charges she racked up wouldn’t come back on her. The more she stiffed someone, the happier she felt. Bastards deserved what they got.
As she walked toward the tall, brightly lit casino, she was vaguely aware of a vehicle rolling up behind her. Crossing the street, she glanced back. The black SUV stopped and a big man with small eyes, a broad forehead, and no neck, dressed in a black shirt and pants, exited briskly. Wanda picked up her pace.
She continued to glance back. He was gaining ground. Her adrenaline kicked in and she ran for the casino’s main entrance. Had she bothered to take her heels off, she might have easily outrun him. She spotted a couple of uniformed officers within a few feet of her destination and ran right up to the closest one.
The black policeman was startled by her approach and turned, clutching his sidearm. His white partner also readied himself. Looking her up and down appreciatively, they eased up.
Out of breath, Wanda simply pointed behind her. The big man had stopped at the valet area. He stood and watched her from a distance, apparently talking into an earpiece.
“That creep’s following me,” Wanda said between breaths.
The second officer stepped past his partner and looked around, but there was only an old lady being helped to her car by a large gentleman.
“Where?” the officer asked, not convinced.
“You just wanting some attention?” the other asked flirtatiously.
Wanda watched as the man, who had grabbed a random stranger so he could play the Good Samaritan role, taunted her with a wicked grin. Slowly, she turned to the policemen. She smiled sweetly, drew back a left fist, and decked the one closest to her. The other cop brought her down hard on the concrete and arrested her.
REALITY CHECK
Through the rising cigar smoke, Pops stared blankly. The possibility that he’d lost his longtime friend Fumi hadn’t yet sunk in. He held the whiskey glass loosely; only a single, partially melted ball of ice remained. Even as a somber feeling washed over him, he still held out hope.
Hours had passed and Shelby sat silently. Each time he looked as if he wanted to say something encouraging, he couldn’t get the words out. Finally, he started to speak.
Before he could, however, Pops grumbled, stood up, and walked over to the bar. He felt Shelby watching him as he sat down and signaled the bartender for another drink. The young blonde was still there, far beyond her normal shift—and past closing hours. She knew something bad had happened, so she had kept her bar talk to simple pleasantries.
Pops zoned out and replayed in his head the last time he had seen Fumi alive. He kept searching for some clue that the man was in more danger than he let on. How someone could get the drop on his friend continued to eat at him. Fumi was very careful.
Shelby gracefully slipped into the bar stool next to Pops and raised his glass. “A toast to Fumi. May that flamboyant Oriental be gliding around in satin robes in whatever plane of existence he finds himself.”
Pops raised his own glass briefly and they drank. “Someone needs to let Daniel know what happened.”
“There will be time for that later. Right now, we need to confirm the worst, find the bastards who did it, and eliminate ’em before they can strike again.”
Pops silently agreed. He felt ready to doze off but turned to Shelby. “What do you make of all this?”
Shelby looked as if he was trying to shake off the shock of actually being asked. “Well, sir,” he began as he sat the drink on the table and turned to make eye contact, “I really don’t think this is about you or Fumi.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Who is it about?”
“I’d like nothing more than for him to be alive and well, but we must be prepared for the worst.”
Pops didn’t like to make assumptions, but he understood Shelby’s reasoning. “All right, then. Why was Alan’s bastard drawn into this?”
“I’m telling you, Pops, there’s more here than you or I know. Let’s first think of the right questions before we can speculate on the right answers,” Shelby said and took a drink.
“What the hell does that mean, Shelby? I asked for your advice, not for you to spit riddles at me.” Pops said it more loudly than he intended.
Shelby gestured to Pops to keep it down but was met with a fiery gaze. He tried to explain himself. “Let me give you an example. They’re not trying to kill anyone with the last name Page, at least not yet. Why?”
Pops’s was tempted to grumble that he had no idea, but he forced himself to consider the question. “It would have been easier than going after someone like Fumi.”
“Exactly.”
“So they want something from me. Going after Fumi was meant to clearly demonstrate their reach.”
Shelby nodded, took a drag from his cigar, and exhaled a cloud. “Go on.”
“I have a feeling Victor’s more of a distraction than anything.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Shelby said. “They didn’t hesitate to take out a powerful guild member.”
Pops considered it. “I can only imagine what they’d want.”
“A good question might be this: What connection is there between you and Fumi that requires only you to be alive?”
“Question, questions,” Pops said, frustrated. “I need answers.”
“We’re asking the right questions, Pops. There is, of course, another possibility. One that requires an answer from someone else.”
“Who, pray tell, would that be?”
“Jack, of course,” Shelby said matter-of-factly.
“Jack? He should be on no one’s radar.”
“Not everyone’s radar works off the same band.”
“If you have something to say, just spit it out.”
“Where is Jack?”
“Not here,” Pops said angrily.
“Right, so what does that tell you?”
Pops took a sip of his drink and decided to not even consider that something bad had happened to him. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind before. Jack was hours late. Pops told himself his son was simply distracted with something else. He just wished he had answered his phone. “Jack needs to wear a damn watch.”
“He was wearing a smartwatch. Those things tell the time, the weather, and maybe the future.”
For the first time, Pops understood something as he glanced over at Shelby: the man knew more than he let on. Not only that, but he loved to play games. He never once questioned where Jack was until that moment.
“Are we going to sit here all night, Pops, or do something useful?” asked Shelby.
Pops nodded. “Okay, let’s do something. Have you ever seen the Page family cellar?”
“That structure built into the hill that half of Viridian Square sits on?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
“I found my way down there a couple times before Jack had the whole thing renovated. It’s secured now with more than a deadbolt. I was never really good with the high-tech stuff.”
Pops rose from his seat and stretched. He took several hundred-dollar bills out and dropped them on the table. “Let’s go.”
Shelby’s eyes lit up. “You mean I’m invited to Jack’s secret lair?”
“If you can keep up.”
Shelby turned to the bartender. “Close out our tab, darlin’.” He started after Pops, who was already at the stairs.
DON'T KNOW JACK
Pops led Shelby to Jack’s underground abode. The light that glowed from the walls had turned a soft red color.
“This is like the set of an old war movie where the crew’s on emergency alert. All it needs is a Klaxon alarm to complete the effect. I like what Jack’s done with the place,” Shelby said. “Tell me it has a pisser.”
“Love, allow access to the bathroom,” Pops said. The computer chirped an acknowledgement.
“That’s an odd name. Is Jack having a fling with a cyber-wench?”
“Speaking of Jack, make sure he’s not back there sleeping.”
The panel along the red wall turned blue just before it opened. Shelby seemed impressed with the technology. He started to enter but popped his head back in briefly. “What are you looking for?”
Pops merely grunted as he swept his hands across the desk monitor. The occasional prompt for authentication irritated him. He started a search through the files and folders but saw nothing of interest.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Pops grunted again, but then paused his search. “You ever hear of the word ‘doppelgänger’?”
“Sure. It’s German for orgy, isn’t it?”
“Is it even possible for you to be serious?”
“It refers to a ghost that resembles a living human. Why?”
Pops’s frustration showed. “Fumi leaves me a single clue and then dies. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“Fumi said something about a ghost?”
“Not exactly,” Pops said as he retrieved the piece of paper, walked over, and handed it to Shelby, who was still halfway out of the room.
Shelby glanced at it and noted the numbers on the other side of the paper. After he snapped a picture of both sides with his phone, he handed it back to Pops. “Maybe you should have Jack do some research. He apparently likes that sort of thing.”
“No, my son has been acting like a flake. If I don’t find anything, I’ll have my grandson or Daniel get on it.”
“Probably a better idea,” Shelby said and then disappeared into the next room.
Pops continued his search but found no references in Jack’s archive either. However, something else grabbed his attention. He launched the video and watched it; as he suspected, he had been right about what Jack was up to, though he didn’t know his reasons. His next endeavor was to figure out how to get the video to display on the wall monitor before him.
After a few minutes, Shelby returned just as Pops had solved the problem. The wall lit up with a splash screen that displayed an image of the platform in the Gulf—before it was swept away years before.
“Can you play video games on that thing?” Shelby asked as he placed a hand on the surface of the table’s screen. He seemed intrigued by the glow that appeared around his finger when he touched it and the trail he left as he swept his hand across its glass.
“I suppose, if you enjoy wasting your time. Stop messing with it. I just got the damn thing to do what I wanted.”
“It took ya that long, you old artifact?”
“I have people who do this sort of crap for me,” Pops said in his defense.
The presentation started. While Shelby seemed completely in the dark about what he was about to watch, Pops had an inkling. They listened to a voice explain what was being shown on the screen. It wasn’t Jack speaking, but an older gentlemen who was a very familiar to Pops. Dr. Eriks, he thought.
On October 14, 1991, a gathering of scientists, engineers, and representatives from various military and intelligence agencies of the US government witnessed an experiment with profound implications. The project was known as Echo. Its purpose was to transport an object, a volleyball in this case, from one location underground to another on a floating platform at sea.
The mechanism behind this feat was a complex machine that could breach the fabric of our universe, creating an ephemeral tear in space-time. The government’s immediate interest was in one particular aspect of the experiment called the Trapdoor, originally intended as a fail-safe. It had already been tested successfully, albeit on a much smaller scale.
The two scientists involved, the Dasinger brothers, held differing opinions regarding the scope of the test. While Dr. Albert Dasinger believed he could achieve the results sought by the US government, his brother, Dr. Erich Dasinger, preferred more testing. The former’s opinion won out and Project Echo was given the green light, although weather conditions were not ideal—
Pops abruptly stopped the video when Shelby asked a question.
“What?”
“I asked if Sanchez has checked in again?”
“No, but he will any moment, I imagine. What the hell has that got to do with what we’re watching on the screen?”
“Not a darn thing. I guess my mind wanders.”
“Try and stay focused.”
“Okay, let's discuss some related material. Why am I living through this nightmare all over again? Why would Jack make a presentation about it? Is he hoping to sell the movie rights?”
“You know as much as I do.”
“That says a lot of nothing, except maybe neither of us really knows Jack.” Shelby looked pleased with his play on words.
“Can we continue?” Pops asked. He resumed the video when Shelby motioned for him to continue. Seconds later, he paused it again to take a call.
Shelby went back to playing with the desk monitor’s light effects. He accidentally turned off the presentation and fumbled to get it back on the main screen again.
Pops tried to ignore Shelby’s antics and focus on the call from Sanchez. “Whatcha got for me, Rick?”
“Pops, I’ve got the briefcase and a prisoner. This was anything but a midnight run,” said Sanchez.
“A prisoner? Who? What happened?”
“Some thug named Mark had followed your grandkids to Lazarus. Please don’t ask how they got on the trail and beat me there. Shortly after I arrived, this dude emerges from the shadows with a gun and starts making threats. Your youngest boy, Joe, shows up out of nowhere and clubs the bastard pretty good.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Yep, ev
en ol’ Mark is still breathing—though, I wouldn’t attest to what condition his brain is in. Joe tagged him pretty good. That was on top of the head wound that he received from Carson earlier. This was the same guy who had tried to grab the kids in the bay. Talk about persistence.”
“Glad he’s the only one with a headache,” Pops said with relief. “Let me know the minute you’re within sight of Viridian Square.”
“You got it, Pops.”
Pops hung up and started to relay the conversation to Shelby.
“Mark? I know that scumbag," said Shelby. "He and his barbecued buddy, Matt, were working together. So ol’ Sanchez rode to the rescue?”
“Not exactly. While he did show up, it was my other son, Joe, who saved the day," Pops replied.
“The little bastard ya had with what’s-her-name? How’d he get involved?”
Pops ignored the bastard comment. “Her name was Alejandra. As for how Joe got suckered into this, that’s beyond me. My grandchildren seem to have recruited him for their quest.”
“The more the merrier, I suppose.”
“Did you miss the part where I said my grandkids found their way to Lazarus and were followed?”
“It’s odd they’d go there, particularly at night. I’m hoping ol’ Mark is dead this time.”
“He’s not, but Sanchez has him. You know what else he has? The briefcase he was sent to retrieve.”
“The briefcase you kept around as insurance? Sounds like all good news to me.”
“Except that Carson and Tripp found it first.”
Shelby seemed confused. “Wait—at Lazarus? I thought Jitters, that crazy old fart, had the briefcase. By the way, bad idea trusting a drug-crazed zombie with it.”
“Apparently, Jack felt the same way and had Joe move it to the crypts.”
“So glad the left hand knows what the right hand is doing. So Sanchez has both a prisoner and the briefcase. What else could Jack’s kiddos possibly get into?”
“With what you know about this family, do you really have to ask that question?”