Dire Means

by Geoffrey Neil

  “What?”

  “This isn’t a cell phone. It’s been Frankensteined into a two-way radio. Did you hear a ring when you called this guy?”

  “No, it was a beep.”

  “Of course. It’s set to full duplex. Normally you would have to press a button to talk and release it to hear. Someone has gone through the trouble to convert a relatively popular cell phone into a sophisticated, encrypted walkie-talkie. Probably to keep you thinking it’s a cell phone—or to avoid tapping.”

  “So what’s the range? How far away was this guy I called?”

  Jim checked the circuit board again and then popped the battery out and examined it. “Three miles or less, unless he used a repeater, in which case the caller could have been anywhere on earth.”

  “Where would a repeater be?”

  “Nearby building, house, or a vehicle—if they thought they’d need to follow you to keep the signal hot.”

  “Thanks, that doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

  “Did he threaten you or something?” Jim snapped the phone back together. He twirled it in his hand and then stopped to check it for a serial number.

  “No, I think he wanted to sell me something.”

  “This is sorta cool,” Jim said, shaking the phone toward Mark. “Good clean work on the keys and c-board resizing. Someone knew what they were doing. It’s clever.”

  “Yeah, gives me the creeps,” Mark said, catching the phone when Jim tossed it to him. “Thanks so much, man. I knew you would know.”

  “You can thank me by healing ol’ Betsy on your way out.”

  “She’s sick again?”

  “Yep. It might be viral.”

  Mark made his way along Jim’s path of junk to the front room where an antiquated PC hummed in the corner. Mark sat down and fixed her up, working his magic, his fingers pounding away on the dirty keyboard to tune up Jim’s computer. After a few minutes, Betsy wasn’t running any faster, but she was clean, her retirement delayed again. The professional courtesy was comfortable for Mark. And it was rare that he could swap service in this way.

  “Betsy’s feeling much better. See ya later,” Mark yelled as he left.

  “Thanks,” came Jim’s reply from the back of the house.

  §

  Mark dialed in and retrieved his home phone messages as he drove home. A synthetic voice said, “Mailbox full.” His answering machine rarely had more than a number five blinking when he got home. He began to play and delete the messages, many from reporters still wanting interviews.

  He turned onto Venice Boulevard and was about to hang up when he heard the familiar voice of Janne Prophet, a client with whom he had developed a close friendship. She left the shortest message of all: “Mark, I saw you. You were phenomenal. Please call me.”

  He hung up and dialed Janne’s number. Her assistant answered and asked him to hold for a moment. When she came back on the line she announced, “You’re connected, Ms. Prophet.”

  “Am I speaking to a bona fide hero?” Janne’s voice echoed from a place that sounded spacious.

  “You gotta help me,” Mark said, and he smiled the smile of a person speaking to a rescuer within reach.

  Janne laughed. “My goodness, I can’t imagine your popularity right now.”

  “Whatever, but seriously, can you spare a few minutes for me?”

  “Whatever you need. I’m home. Come here now.”

  “You’re a life saver. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Janne Prophet was a media mogul, founder of a successful press syndicate and owner of a chain of nine newspapers evenly spaced from San Diego to Seattle. She had recently broadened her media empire to include several television stations. Mark had met her three years ago when she was referred by another client. On his first visit, he helped her convert to a near-paperless electronic office. He set her up with electronic address books and a scanning service to convert the tons of paper in her filing cabinets to computer files. “Bring me into the twenty-first century, and spare no expense,” she had told Mark. He did so by using every tree-saving technology available. Over the years, Mark had helped Janne develop her office technology and even to enjoy it.

  He knew he could tap into Janne’s vast knowledge of the media for advice on how to handle his newfound fame. Al’s words about humiliation and public lack of concern for the homeless had affected Mark. The praise he received after rescuing Al seemed excessive, and benefiting from it felt exploitative.

  Although Janne’s southern California corporate offices were in Century City, she preferred to work from her beautiful home in Santa Monica. Her assistants routed her calls to her house on most days and it was there that Mark now raced.

  Janne’s home sat tucked on two and a half acres of prime real estate only a block from the beach. Mark parked in the driveway and climbed three steps to the wide porch of the colonial-style mansion. A housekeeper greeted him and offered him a seat in a parlor off the entryway.

  The home had the look of a museum, with order and cleanliness that Mark loved. Fresh flowers were on every table and open windows stirred their scent. Oriental rugs under antique chairs partially hid polished hard wood floors. Souvenirs of bows, arrows, paintings, and mounted taxidermy from Janne’s world travels sat on a crown-molded ledge high on each wall.

  “Would all reluctant heroes please come upstairs?” Janne’s voice echoed from the top of the staircase.

  He met her at the top of the stairs. She smiled with open arms. In her fifties, trim and always fashionable, she dressed with the same attention to detail that she gave her home. Her hair was always done and each time Mark saw her she looked as though she had just left the salon. Designer red bifocals made her appear more like a professor than a media mogul.

  After they hugged, she stepped back and lifted Mark’s chin with her fingertips. “You look good outside, but in your eyes—ehh, not so good. Are you hurt?”

  “Who isn’t?”

  Janne laughed and interlocked her arm with his, leading him down the hallway to her office. The upper floor of the house was more open and contemporary. Large framed mirrors enhanced the natural light that streamed in through skylights.

  For some reason Janne had taken a special liking to Mark. “It seems that your new fame has cramped your style,” she said as they neared her arched office door.

  “I’ll survive, but you gotta help me with these reporters. Are any of them from you?”

  “Probably, but I didn’t send them, specifically. They are doing their jobs. If I call mine off, you won’t feel the difference. You are news, my friend. Come. Tell me all.” She swung open the tall door and gestured for Mark to enter.

  A desk sat diagonally in the middle of a sprawling office. On his first visit Janne had explained that the desk was made from an unhinged barn door that she had seen beside a road near a farm in Mexico. She fell in love with it at first site and paid a generous sum of money to the thrilled family that owned it. Its ornate carvings and artisanship were visible since the desk held little more than Janne’s laptop, a penholder, and a few newspapers. Framed debut issues of her publications, awards, and commendations from charitable organizations lined her walls. French double doors opened to a tiled sun deck with a view of the Pacific Ocean, interrupted only by a row of lanky palm trees creating a postcard perfect view. Ceramic hand-painted waist-high urns lined a planter that ran the perimeter of the deck. Each urn contained flowers visited by occasional hummingbirds. A railing at the deck’s far edge overlooked a swimming pool and guesthouse.

  They went out onto the sun deck. Mark proceeded to tell Janne the story of his assault and of the supposed heroism of his rescue of Al.

  After listening intently, Janne said, “Do you realize how ‘on time’ your act was?”

  “What do you mean?” Mark asked, puzzled.

  “I mean this city has entered a state of complete terror.” Janne stood and stepped inside the office to get a New York Times from her desk. She snapped it open, folde
d a page back, and laid it on his lap. The headline read, “Santa Monica Loses a 14th Person.”

  “This city is under attack. People are frightened—and to see someone such as yourself take the risk you did to save a person many would consider insignificant is exactly what the people needed to see. And televising it was the healthiest distraction I can imagine for a city thirsty for something—someone they can count on. Your victory amidst all the mysterious horror that surrounds us these days was refreshing.”

  “Thanks. That’s all nice, Janne, but I didn’t know I’d have to deal with the cameras, aggressive reporters, phone calls, full answering machines—”

  “Would that have changed your mind about rescuing that man?”

  Mark leaned back and gazed at the blue sky flanked by palm trees. He shook his head.

  Janne stood and motioned for Mark to follow her into her office again. “I know what you need,” she said. She sat down and began flipping pages in her appointment book.

  Mark sat on a chair facing her desk. “Why aren’t you using the handheld I set up for you?” he asked.

  “I’m ashamed to say I forgot everything you showed me so this is faster for now, trust me.”

  Janne jotted some notes on a pad and said, “We’re going to hold a press conference—an official response from you that the media can sink their teeth into and eliminate your paparazzi and overbearing correspondent problem. If you don’t give them something, you won’t be able to live at home for a week.”

  “No. Please, no. I really don’t want to be on TV again,” Mark said.

  “To you, fame is a sickness. It will go away on its own, but it’ll leave quicker if we treat it. Now, do you want my help or not?”

  “I do, but—”

  “Do I tell you how to fix computers?”

  “No.”

  “Do I trust you to get me out of my technological mishaps?”

  Mark smiled. He could not refute her.

  She turned to a heavily marked calendar on the wall beside her desk. “Can you be available tomorrow afternoon?”

  Mark nodded.

  “Leave everything to me.” She reached across her desk and pressed a speed dial button. Her assistant answered on speaker and Janne greeted her. “Tracey, dahling…”

  “Yes, Ms. Prophet.”

  “I need a press kit, announcements, and location set up sooner than humanly possible. Please book the Doubletree Renaissance Room for four o’clock tomorrow and cyber-blast the kit to all our outlets. Title it, ‘Mark Denny makes statement and answers questions about heroic act on the Third Street Promenade.’ And did I mention that this needs to happen by tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Contact the San Diego, Santa Barbara, Salinas, Portland and Seattle offices and have each fly down their best person for coverage—tell them it’s exclusive, so it’s a reward of sorts.” Janne leaned back in her chair and smiled.

  “Moderation?” Tracey’s voice sounded tinny through the speakerphone.

  Janne studied her fingernails for a moment and then said, “Me. I’m going to moderate this myself. It’s been a long time.”

  Mark marveled at Janne as she worked her business. She was a true pro and watching her was a treat.

  She turned to him, “Mark, do you have a suit?”

  “One.”

  “What color?”

  “Navy.”

  “Fine. Wear it… Oh, and Tracey?”

  “Yes, Ms. Prophet.”

  “I want refreshments served and a nice floral. This press conference is to be both conclusive and celebratory. We’re going to flare and then quench Mark’s limelight so he can get back to his life.”

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Prophet.”

  “That’s all. Thanks, hon.” Janne ended the call with the press of a button. She took a moment to write a few more notes in broad strokes and then paused to look at Mark. “I’ll compose a statement for you tonight—based on what you shared with me. Tomorrow you can review and correct, if need be. Be at the Doubletree at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow and we’ll run a mock up before we broadcast at 4:00.”

  “I might have to run away,” Mark said, elbows on his knees and chin resting in his hands.

  Janne looked over her glasses and feigned an angry glare.

  “Okay, okay, I trust you.”

  After the visit with Janne, Mark called Bonfiglio Café on his way home. Henry’s voice was hushed and Mark didn’t hear the usual background banter. Only a voice on the café’s television was audible. The fifteenth person, an eighteen-year-old, had been reported missing for twenty-four hours under the same mysterious circumstances as the others. The boy’s family was on the air making a statement. Henry quietly took Mark’s order for two portions of Mark’s Macaroni Madness and hung up.

  When Mark arrived, the café was abuzz with new speculation on the vanishing Santa Monicans. The eighteen year old was the first person under twenty-one years old to go missing. Henry handed Mark his to-go containers in a plastic bag and waved off Mark’s attempt to pay.

  In front of his apartment complex, dusk had triggered a few streetlights to flicker on at half power as they warmed up. Enough light remained to see that no more news crew personnel waited, but an unfamiliar man in a suit stood at the top of the steps. He carried a briefcase and paused to look in all directions before he sauntered down the stairs. If Mark had arrived two minutes earlier, they would have passed on the narrow walkway. He felt the luck of timing and instead of leaving his car, pulled out a container of his macaroni. As he ate, he watched the man walk a short way down the street and get into an unmarked van.

  He waited until it was darker outside before leaving his car. When he reached his front door, two red envelopes were taped to it and a gift basket sat on the doormat. He collected them all and went inside, checking over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been spotted.

  The basket contained large shiny apples, pears, and grapes. Gourmet coffee and wrapped chocolate candies were tucked between. A book about heroism protruded from the center of the treats. The entire basket was wrapped in cellophane with a thick red bow tied at the top. He put it on his kitchen countertop, pulled a steak knife from a drawer and cut the wrapping open.

  As he bit into an apple, he examined the two envelopes which were both from new admirers who had seen him on TV. He wiped juice from his chin and wondered how they had found his address—and in so little time. One letter ended its praise for him with an invitation to say a few words at a local church at any of the next two Sunday services. The church pastor had signed it and included a P.S., saying that he was doing a sermon on selfless love.

  While reading the other fan letter, he wondered where Al was. He wondered if he was getting a comparable amount of attention—the non-humiliating attention he needed—or any attention at all. Were news reporters trying to get his side of the story? If so, Mark had neither seen nor heard anything about him since their encounter three stories above the Promenade.

  He turned on the television. The news was almost entirely about the missing persons, focusing mainly on the newest, youngest victim. It seemed that law enforcement was finally inclined to call these “abductions.”

  Mark’s story was featured later in the broadcast and the replay of his lunge at Al was shown in slow motion. Earlier that day, Channel Five had taken some footage of Mark’s front door with a reporter knocking on it. He saw that an envelope had already been taped to it. The reporter said that Mark Denny could not be contacted for comment. The camera then panned left to a grinning Todd Felsom who appeared thrilled to be of service.

  “Did you know you had a hero next door, Mr. Felsom?”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. Mark is a fantastic neighbor,” Todd boasted. The reporter nodded for Todd to continue. “What people don’t know is that Mark risked his life for this guy right after having been assaulted and robbed five days earlier. Mark Denny is Superman as far as I’m concerned.”

  Mark clapped his hand to his forehe
ad. He wasn’t angry, just unused to such attention—and for an act he had no idea would become as big as it had. He turned off the TV and then went to bed, hoping he could find sleep on the night before he would be televised, again, at the press conference arranged by Janne.

  The next day, Mark performed a few computer service calls around town before he made his way to the Renaissance Room at the DoubleTree Hotel. He was right on time for the 3:00 p.m. prep Janne had requested. As he walked through the parking lot, he searched for Janne, but didn’t see her. Inside, he cracked the Renaissance Room’s door and peered in. A small group of reporters crowded to one side of the room, talking on phones and setting up cameras and laptops. In front of them, a dozen still-photo and television cameras mounted on tripods were aimed at a long table with pleated burgundy tablecloth that hung to the floor. A bundle of microphones spouted up in the center of the table like an overstuffed bouquet. The bright call letters of local radio and TV stations collared each one.

  “Mark,” someone whispered loudly from behind him. He turned and saw Janne jogging toward him. “Don’t go in there, they’ll mob you with questions and we’re not ready.” She pulled him by the arm and led him away. “I have a separate room for us to prepare in. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous. Will I live?”

  Janne put her arm around his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

  She had notes spread out on a table and three newspapers opened to stories about Mark’s heroism. She locked the door behind them and pointed to a chair. They refined Mark’s press statement and rehearsed a number of probable questions.

  “I’m going to give you a get out of jail free card.” Janne said.

  “What? I’m going to jail now?”

  “No, my paranoid friend. Reporters can sometimes be a bit raw in their questioning. They want the dramatic story and will try to get a reaction from you. If a tough question is too uncomfortable to deal with, I want you to pinch the skin of your Adam’s apple and tug it gently a few times. The move is inconspicuous, but I’ll see it and I’ll step in to take over. That’s what we’ll call your ‘get out of jail free card.’”