Genie and Engineer 1: The Engineer Wizard

by Glenn Michaels

  “And now, on a lighter note, Gail is here to tell us about what a group of preschoolers are up to this week....”

  Paul heaved a mournful sigh and turned the TV off with the remote.

  Just freakin’ wonderful.

  TWENTY

  South Padre Island, Texas

  Pearl South Padre

  January

  Wednesday, 7:44 a.m. CST

  The sun streaming in through the cracks in the curtains woke him up early the next morning, after he had spent a restless night tossing and turning in bed. Wearily rubbing his eyes, Paul headed to the bathroom to splash a little water on his face.

  He studied his image in the mirror. On the plus side, the spells for improving his health were gradually helping him physically, and as a side benefit, they were also making him look a little younger and fitter. His hair was coming back on top, still short, but thick and brown. His weight must have been down to nearly 200 pounds now. And his eyesight was much improved as well, which was a good thing, since he had lost his glasses as a prisoner of Ruggiero.

  On the minus side, there were bags under his bloodshot eyes, he had a quarter-inch beard, and he was still wrung out from the previous day and restless night.

  Without a razor, he could do nothing for the beard, but he did take a long, luxurious hot shower, which served to ease his aches and pains somewhat. After he dressed in his now-dry clothes, he left the room, two peso coins in his hand, using them to maintain his disguise as the business executive.

  Downstairs, Paul found his way into the Beachside Bar & Grille, the house restaurant. A middle-aged waitress took his order for orange juice, eggs over easy, toast, bacon, and a double order of hash browns. He smiled gratefully at her when she delivered the meal, the delicious smell of the food making his mouth water in anticipation. If she thought it strange for him to carry around two Mexican coins, she gave no sign of it.

  As Paul ravenously consumed his food, he lapsed deep into thought, noting with dry humor that once again, he was on the run from the bad guys, just as he had been almost from the moment the genie had given him magical powers. And before that, his job had dragged him through the fire for more than a month with that special project. He momentarily chortled when he thought of the mystery he must have left behind at Edwards AFB. Yes, they must have been quite surprised by his disappearance.

  But never mind all of that right now. At the moment, Paul was extremely tired of being chased and having his life threatened several times a day. It was past time to break free from all of that. There had to be a way of doing so. There was a genuine need for him to evaluate his situation and make effective long-range plans, but he couldn’t do that while he was on the run.

  “Let’s have the CIA guy back, please,” Paul muttered between savoring bites of heavenly hash browns.

  The black-ops agent materialized in a chair at the table next to Paul’s but faced away from him.

  “Seems to be all clear,” the hologram whispered over his shoulder after looking carefully around the Grille. Since there were no other customers present, Paul found the specter’s remarks to be more than a bit quirky, and he shook his head, mildly annoyed.

  Casually, the spy got out of his chair and sat in another one on the opposite side of Paul’s table.

  “Ingenious, that device you used to escape from Tampico,” the apparition commented. “Perhaps if you could provide the design specs to the firm, they would add it to our inventory. I wouldn’t mind trying one myself.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Paul said with a forced smile. “There’s something I’m having a hard time figuring out. How were they able to track me? They seem to know where I am going to be even before I get there. How do they do it?”

  The spy shrugged, pulling off his sunglasses and setting them on the table. “It’s not hard, not really. They have their version of a magical sage too. And you have become pretty predictable after a fashion.”

  Dismayed by the man’s words, Paul stopped in mid-chew and stared at him in alarm. “I have?”

  “Sure,” the spy replied with a casual wave of his hand. “Think about it. When you escaped from Ruggiero, you went to one of the nearest airports and caught a plane. That’s what a Normal would do. And in Mexico, you took a bus. That’s pretty predictable. The only thing you did that was different was that broom of yours. That caught them off guard. But even then, they understood that you were heading for the United States. Anyone could see that. My guess is that they have Oni all along the border, from Brownsville to Fort Bliss, hoping to intercept you.”

  Paul’s hand shook a bit as he lifted his glass and quickly swallowed some orange juice.

  “It won’t take them long to find me here either, will it?” he asked nervously, abruptly feeling very exposed.

  “They are probably already on their way,” his companion confidently asserted, watching a young couple enter the Grille and choose a table on the far side of the restaurant. “You showed your real face to those people on the beach yesterday afternoon. True, you look a bit younger now than in the photo on the news and you have a new set of whiskers, but still, there is enough of a resemblance that they will likely report your presence on the island to the police. It’s a good thing you faked your appearance when you checked in here; otherwise, you would have probably already been caught.”

  Paul’s heart was pounding loudly in his chest. Just freakin’ wonderful.

  He sighed, his appetite suddenly gone, the remainder of the breakfast no longer appealing. “I’d better get out of here, then.”

  “Yep. Good idea.”

  The black-suited figure disappeared, and Paul signaled the waitress for his check.

  • • • •

  As Paul left the Grille, he went straight toward the lobby, intending to check out.

  However, there were two Texas Rangers already there, talking to one of the desk clerks.

  Averting his gaze, Paul steered past them and left the building, heading for the pool area.

  Just peachy. His heebie-jeebies were suddenly worse.

  What was he supposed to do now?

  “Merlin? I need a little help right now!” Paul loudly shouted as he walked along the white sidewalk. A few of the people lounging around the pool glanced over at him with apprehensive frowns.

  “What do you need now, young man?” Merlin asked as he swam up to the edge of the pool near Paul’s feet.

  Paul stared down at him in surprise. Oh, yeah, sure, the old wizard was just one of his magical spells. But sometimes...well, Paul just wasn’t expecting the hologram to don a bathing suit and swim around in a motel pool!

  Paul closed his open mouth, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and, in a lower voice, got down to business. “Merlin, the law is here. How do I escape? And in a way that they can’t track me?”

  He paced alongside the pool as Merlin followed in a breaststroke.

  Concentrating hard, Paul continued. “They’ll close off the roads. So I can’t rent a car or get on a bus. Is there an airport on the island?”

  “No,” Merlin answered, splashing playfully with a brightly colored beach ball. “And before you ask, there is no sheet metal shop on the island either and no RadioShack where you can buy more solder. There is one of those in Port Isabel, on the mainland, but you probably wouldn’t get that far.”

  “Gee, you’re a lot of help,” Paul observed sarcastically.

  “Mr. CIA was right about you,” Merlin said calmly in response. “You have been too predictable. Do something unpredictable.”

  “Such as?”

  “If I could predict it, then it wouldn’t be unpredictable, would it?” the older wizard replied, eyeing a girl in a bikini that was getting into the pool.

  “Act your age,” Paul muttered, vexed that Merlin hadn’t been more helpful than that.

  Okay, how would one escape in an unpredictable manner? The predictable things were the ones that a normal human being would use. So, no planes, boats, cars, bikes, a
nd so forth.

  Without a talisman—or even a roll of solder as an amulet!—he couldn’t use portals. There might be some scientific theories that could help him out, but he didn’t have time for experimentation.

  Where did that leave him?

  Too bad that in South Texas, there weren’t any good-sized rocks....

  Paul stared at the white sidewalk beneath his feet. Well, I’ll be Homer Simpson’s stupid stepbrother! he silently shouted at himself. How could I miss something so terribly obvious?

  If a big natural rock wasn’t available, he would have to use a man-made one!

  Paul reached down and touched the concrete sidewalk. True, it wasn’t all one big contiguous piece, but this section was certainly large enough to serve his purpose.

  Merlin sputtered water, like a whale clearing its spout. “Concrete. Calcium silicates bonded to aluminum oxides. Compared to other rocks, it packs a decent enough punch.”

  Vastly relieved and with a smile on his face, Paul opened a portal and rolled through.

  • • • •

  The Queen Isabella Causeway stretched west, linking South Padre Island to the mainland of Texas, over a distance of exactly 2.37 miles.

  On the island end of the causeway, there were two large concrete aprons, one on each side of the foot of the bridge, placed there to keep hurricanes and the tide from undermining its foundation.

  Paul’s portal from the motel put him within casual walking distance of the apron on the northern side. It too was not a single piece of concrete, but there were segments here that weighed several tons.

  Another portal—

  And he was standing alongside Texas Route 186, East Hidalgo Avenue, just a dozen feet away from the east overpass of Hwy 77. The town of Raymondville, Texas was just down the road a few miles.

  Paul grinned wickedly. It had worked! And it had been so easy, too. He kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner.

  True, this little stunt didn’t have the range that even a small amulet would produce, but then, it didn’t have to. There were bridges and overpasses scattered all over the United States.

  With a renewed spring in his step and a monstrous grin, Paul headed over to the concrete overpass. Next stop, Robstown, on his way northward.

  The nice thing about this mode of travel was that it didn’t leave a significant trail to follow. Using this method, most of the portals he created only transported him twenty miles or so, and he took care to scatter the energy signature at each stop.

  No paper trail, no witnesses, and no magical trail after a few minutes. A sense of determination and self-confidence buoyed him. He could now go anywhere in the United States and they couldn’t find him.

  Well, no, that was not quite true. He knew he couldn’t go home to Mojave. They probably had a small army there just waiting for him to put in an appearance. And Los Angeles was out of the question too. Oh, the L.A. metropolitan area was definitely large enough to hide in for a while. But it was too close to home, and they could afford the manpower necessary to search the Los Angeles Basin from one end to the other, even if it took a few months.

  But almost everywhere else in the United States was fair game.

  And Paul now had time to think about where to go and what to do. For the first time in weeks, an enormous sense of relief swept over him. He almost felt as if he were a death row inmate granted a last-minute reprieve by the governor.

  It was past time to think and make some serious plans.

  SECTION II

  TRUE LOVE

  TWENTY-ONE

  Chicago, Illinois

  South Lawndale

  S Kildare Ave.

  March

  Thursday, 11:02 a.m. CST

  The north wind was blustering intensely, the bitter air carrying a few wildly driven snowflakes. On the ground, a thin layer of ice and snow covered small patches of brown grass in what laughingly passed for lawns in this part of the city. The seemingly endless rows of Chicago bungalows, each squeezed onto a 24-foot-wide city lot, huddled together against the wind. Leafless trees acted as silent sentinels lining the street on both sides, while the two solid lines of cars, vans, and trucks parked along the curbs testified to the densely packed population of the neighborhood.

  This wasn’t called the Windy City for the dainty summer breezes it got in July.

  Walking along the east side of the street, Paul cinched the collar of his warm coat around his neck and used his right glove to sweep the snowflakes from his hair.

  Shortly, he would be out of the weather and back at “his place.”

  There was some activity half a block away, where three men were moving some furniture out of a house, but nothing closer.

  Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed or observed, Paul resumed his “homeward” trek.

  Chicago was the city of his choice to hide in for a couple of good reasons. First, no sane South Californian would voluntarily live in the Windy City. Therefore, it was the least likely place for anyone to search for him. And second, Chicago was one of the largest and most densely inhabited cities in the United States. Even if the authorities, Ruggiero, or any other wizard knew which city to look in, they would have a devil of a time hunting him down.

  Two months had gone by since Paul’s escape from his captors. Two solid months, and he had not been idle.

  He had a much different appearance now, thanks to the nearly continuous use of magical spells. His weight was down to 185 pounds, his height had been bumped up to 6 foot 2, his muscle tone had been improved, and his eyesight was now 20/10. His diabetes was a distant memory, as was his former balding condition. Moreover, he was younger looking, his appearance now one of a forty-something male, though one in near-prime condition.

  The most important aspect of his physical condition was still incomplete. His new left arm was still in the process of regeneration, but every day that went by saw an improvement. Most of the forearm was restored, though the muscles were still underdeveloped. However, the hand was still nothing more than a knot of bones covered by a thin layer of skin. By his estimate, there was another month’s worth of magical spells left before his entire left arm could be declared “as good as new.”

  Paul reached out and opened the black wrought-iron gate in front of a brown-bricked bungalow and walked five paces to the front concrete steps. The house here was a two-story structure with a very small front porch, built sometime in the late 1940s, but “recently renovated” only twenty-five years previously. Inside the dwelling, the rooms were small, the heating system positively ancient, the water pipes made of lead, the walls covered with at least twenty coats of paint (a wide variety of colors, too), and the bathroom so old it had to be seen to be believed. In addition, there was no internet connection, no air conditioning, one phone outlet in the living room, no garbage disposal or laundry room or dishwasher and only a small thirty-gallon hot water heater.

  This was “home” now, at least for the next four months, so said the terms of his six month lease.

  Unlocking and unbolting the front door was always a little fun one-handed but he cheated a little with an assist from a magic spell. Once inside, he hurriedly slammed shut the door to keep as much of the cold air outside as possible.

  Shedding his coat, he hung it on the coat rack beside the door and moved toward the kitchen, past the small sofa and easy chair in the living room.

  Paul had the funds now to rent a bigger, nicer and newer home in a more affluent neighborhood but he had deliberately selected this one because it suited his need to maintain as low a profile as possible. And too, this was a pretty crowded neighborhood, the population density higher than most other sections of the city. Since he considered it to be a temporary arrangement, one that bought him the time and space to consider his options and develop a working plan for his future, he figured he could make do with the less than optimum accommodations.

  Financially, Paul was in great shape. Upon his arrival in the United States back in January, one of his f
irst acts had been to visit the exceptional state of Nevada. Prospecting for gold on public lands was still lawful in the state, no permit required. Paul had found a nice deposit on the southwest slopes of Mount Lewis at the 5,700 foot elevation in a small dry creek bed. Using the same methods as in Spain, he again extracted the gold using portals with a filter exclusively set for that element. Only the gold had been extricated, leaving the rest of the earth undisturbed.

  Just as he had previously done, he again used a part of the gold he gathered to create an amulet. However, instead of a gold bar, this time he fashioned three pounds of it into a heavy wrist band around his right wrist.

  Insufferably pleased with himself at how easily his magical powers made him rich, Paul had actually quoted Rom, from Star Trek Deep Space Nine.

  “‘Latinum lasts longer than lust. Ferengi rule of Acquisition 229,’” he had quoted with a smug laugh, as he admired the light glinting off his gold wrist band.

  Before he could sell the rest of the gold to anyone, he had been forced to first take the time to establish an identity. He couldn’t very well use his own name anymore, lest Ruggiero or some other wizard track him down. So Paul had jumped back on the internet and conducted a search of databases of missing persons from around the United States eventually selecting the identity of one Henry Matthew Kaufman from the state of Alaska. Paul had been surprised to discover that, on a per capita basis, there were more missing people from Alaska than any other state in the country. Most of this was apparently due to the combination of really rugged terrain and terrible weather that trapped the unwary hunter or camper in desolate locations, their bodies often never recovered. In the case of Henry Matthew Kaufman, he had first been reported missing over a year ago, so it seemed safe enough to use that identity. And, since Kaufman was from Alaska, it also seemed safe enough to assume that no one in Illinois would investigate the missing man’s background.