"Two people is a coincidence, Mr. Everton. I'd like to help you, but I can't use my authority as a police officer to request something like this. Have you tried simply talking to him? He might be willing to just show you the tapes."
"Yeah, thanks, I'll try that," I say, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
"No dice?" Brian says as I hang up.
"No, nothing. He thinks it's perfectly fine that some mad scientist is off running around sticking miracle machines into people, and won't help. He says maybe I should try asking nicely. And anyway," I add as a thought strikes me, "it sort of is quartering soldiers in my home. These things are definitely warlike, and I live in my body."
Brian, who did not hear Peterson's half of the phone conversation, says, "...What?"
I wave it off. "Don't worry about it."
From the couch, Regina suggests, "Maybe we can get someone he hates less to ask him."
"Not a bad call, but why would he turn the tapes over to some rando? This is why we need someone in authority. Edgar loves authority."
"Maybe you call him up and tell him you're a cop, and we'll get him to drop them off or something."
"Wait, no," I say. "I mean, you've got the right idea, but there's a better solution. I think we'll have to wait for the weekend, though."
- - -
Over the week, work grows increasingly polarized. The people I've talked to and reminded that I'm a good guy are fine, and we talk and laugh like we always did. None of them seem to have gone back to their briefly-held opinions of me as unpleasant, so that's good.
Less good are all of the guys who I'd previously had a blank-but-amicable coworker relationship with, who now seem to have solidified their belief that I am a real jerk. I'm convinced that I could talk them out of it if we interacted, like I did with Mr. Steele and Christopher, but they literally turn their backs on me if I come over.
I try pressing the point with one guy named Ray. "Come on, man. You're acting like I stole money from your mother. Tell me why! All you've gotta do is tell me what's up, and I'll leave you alone."
Ray puts one meaty finger on my chest and shoves. "What's up is that I don't like you. I've seen guys like you before. You screw around on a project until someone gets killed."
"I haven't done anything wrong!" I protest. "Name one time you've seen me screwing around."
Ray steps towards me, leaning down to get right in my face. "Take a hint, squirt. Go do your job, leave me to do mine, and stay as far away from me as you can. And when we're working together, you'd better hold up your end. I'm not getting killed over your shoddy work."
He shoves me again, takes his lunch and stomps off. The loose circle of interested bystanders that was starting to form around us breaks up and begins to drift off. I rub my shoulder where he pushed me, shrug and walk back to my own lunch.
Interestingly, Ray's attitude towards me thaws after that. We're not friends, but he's friendly enough as we pass by each other on the site. Obviously, once I caused him to think about it, he realized that I wasn't guilty of whatever he'd been thinking, and it's eased the tension.
So all I've got to do to fix this problem is get into a physical altercation with the other fifteen or so guys who are still holding this phantom grudge against me. Yeah, that'll definitely win me a lot of friends at work.
Every night, I go home and meditate, which is probably the least normal way to relax from a construction job. In fairness, I'm not using it to relax; I'm practicing my focusing techniques to try to speed up the growth process. If it took me all night just to grow a coating for half of an arm, it'll take me days to grow an entire suit, and I'd really like to get that done faster.
By Friday, I'm able to grow a sleeve and glove in under an hour, which is a pretty big improvement. That evening after work, I carbo-load at dinner and go to bed early to get ready for the main event. I lie down in bed, focus on my breathing, and picture a policeman.
Officer Peterson pops immediately into my mind, so I go with it. I feel the familiar prickle on my back as the skin starts to grow, and I hold the image in my mind, feeling the form build up around me, tiny insects skittering with purpose all over my body.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep. When I wake up in the morning, it feels like I'm wrapped in a rubber sheet. I roll out of bed and rub my face, which I can barely feel, then stumble toward the mirror.
Looking back at me is a near-perfect copy of Officer Peterson, fully dressed in his police uniform. I flick the nametag curiously, but it just makes a dull thud instead of a sharp ring. Although it shines like metal, it has the same rubbery consistency as the skin.
In the kitchen, Regina looks over me in awe. "That's seriously creepy, Dan. It looks natural, though."
"Yeah, it feels really weird. It moves all right, but I can't really feel anything when I touch it. It's like wearing heavy gloves."
"How do the clothes work? Can I touch?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"Oh, weird! The sleeves meld into your arms just inside. It's like a little flap of skin masquerading as a shirt. Is this skin? Are you naked under there?"
"What? No. I slept in boxers and a t-shirt. They're still on. Listen, I'm going to need some coffee if there's going to be an interrogation."
Regina pours me a cup, then stares as I drink it. "So you can eat and drink normally?"
"Yeah, I think it seals up on the insides of my lips. See, these are my real teeth."
"What if Peterson had a gold tooth?"
"Then I guess the disguise wouldn't work. He's not my height, either, so it's not perfect anyway. But Edgar only met him a couple of times a few months back, so it'll probably be close enough."
I finish my coffee and eat my breakfast with Regina still peppering me with questions I don't really have answers for, like how long the disguise will last and what happens if I have to go to the bathroom. That last is actually a very good question and something that I should have thought of, but since I didn't, I suppose the answer is that I'm going to hold it.
In the interest of minimizing the amount of time I have to do that for, I call Edgar as soon as it's a reasonable hour. I use Regina's phone in case he has my number saved, because this would be sort of transparent if the phone call shows up under my name.
"Yes?" Edgar answers the phone. Man, I hate that tone. Hearing it now brings back every lecture of his that I had to sit through while I was at the museum – and there were plenty.
"Is this Mr. Dobson?" I ask, putting on a gruff voice.
"Speaking."
"Yes, this is –" shoot, I didn't come up with a name; ah, screw it "– Officer Sam Peterson. I'm calling in reference to a case that occurred several months back, which resulted in severe damage to the museum property."
"Yes, I recall," Edgar says icily.
"We had some questions which I think could be resolved by a look at your security tapes from the weeks before the incident. Do you still have those?"
"Museum policy calls for tapes to be held for only ninety days."
Well, so much for that. "I underst–"
"However," Edgar continues, "I thought that keeping them longer in this particular case might prove fruitful. We had a problem employee at the time, and it seemed to me that the police might want to take a longer look at him at some point. I'm pleased to see that you are of the same mind."
"So you do have the tapes? Very good. When could I come get them?"
"I will be at the museum all day today. If you could stop by around 2 PM, I will have them ready for you."
"2 PM, excellent. Thank you for your assistance."
"And thank you, Officer."
I check to make sure I've ended the call before turning back to Regina. "Can you believe that? He kept the tapes longer than policy just in case the police wanted to investigate me!"
"Which is really convenient for us now, right?"
"Yeah, but – man, what a jerk!"
- Chapter Seven -
I spend the re
st of the day preparing for my meeting with Edgar. This may seem excessive, since ideally it will last for only a few minutes, but I have learned not to underestimate the universe's ability to screw things up for me. And, to be perfectly honest, my ability to screw things up for myself. The universe and I make a pretty good team some days.
I practice modulating my voice, changing the pitch and cadence to minimize the chance of Edgar recognizing me. I mainly tried to stay out of his way while I was the night security guard at the museum, which should work in my favor here. On the other hand, I clearly left an impression, so I don't want to take any chances. Certainly I'd still be able to pick his voice out at a party – although I can't imagine any situation that would lead to Edgar and me being at the same party. For that matter, I can't really imagine Edgar being at a party at all. If I had to guess at what he does after work, I'd say he probably goes home, sucks the blood out of a few innocent puppies for dinner, then gets a good night's sleep in his coffin.
Yes, I know vampires are traditionally nocturnal. It's not a perfect analogy.
I run through various scenarios in my head, from things going well:
"Hello, I'm Officer Peterson."
"Please take these tapes and get out."
"Righty-o, thanks!"
To not so well:
"Hello, I'm Officer Peterson."
"Really? Because you sound just like a horrible ex-employee of mine named Dan."
"Smoke bomb!" Flee for nearest exit, doubly fast since I do not actually have smoke bombs.
To extremely poorly:
"Hello, I'm Officer Peterson."
"Strange, since I called Officer Peterson a few hours ago, and he did not know about this morning's call. Would you care to explain yourself to him? Police have already blocked all of the exits."
I don't actually have an escape plan for that last possibility. I was the night guard for several years, so I definitely know all of the entrances and exits better than anyone. But when I try to picture an escape under those circumstances, all I see is a Scooby-Doo-style chase with me, Edgar and the police running in and out of various doors in the museum. And everyone knows that Scooby Doo always ends with the guy in the rubber suit getting his mask pulled off, so that doesn't turn out well for me.
If it comes down to that, I'll just turn myself in and face the music. Peterson's going to be ticked, but maybe I can explain it to him. At the very least, he's probably not going to want to lock me up, since history suggests that if I've got powers, so does someone else, and they've got bad intentions. That's not a thick thread to hang my hopes on, but it's the best I've got if things go completely pear-shaped.
By noon, I've gotten all of the potential future problems pretty well sorted out. I'm faced with a fairly pressing current problem, though: I really need to use the bathroom. I thought I could tough it out, but there's no way I'm making it two more hours, and that doesn't even include travel time to get back home after the meeting.
"Don't your pants have a fly?" asks Regina when I mention my issue to her.
"Yeah, but it doesn't work!"
"It looks like it does, though. So just cut along where it should open anyway, and then it won't look weird."
This may sound like a perfectly simple and reasonable idea, but let me tell you: taking a razor blade to the fly of a pair of pants you are currently wearing is anything but simple or reasonable. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and after no small amount of sweat and lip-biting concentration, I successfully convert my non-working fly into a working one without injuring myself.
"But now it opens when I move," I complain to Regina.
"Superglue it," she says, and I do, adding another notch to the "things you don't want to do to pants you are currently wearing" tally.
At 1:40, Regina and I get into her car and drive to the museum, and at 1:55 I'm striding up the front steps, trying to look bold and in charge. On the far side of the atrium, the door to Edgar's office is open, so I knock on the doorframe to get his attention.
"Mr. Dobson? I'm Officer Peterson. We spoke on the phone."
Edgar looks up from his paperwork and narrows his eyes at me. At first, I think he's suspicious, but then I realize it's accompanied by a thin smile. It's not a good look for him.
"Yes, Officer Peterson. Come in, please. I have those security videos for you."
Edgar steps around the desk to shake my hand, and now we're face-to-face with each other and he doesn't seem to spot anything out of place. I force myself to breathe normally and relax, but my heart is beating like I've just run up a flight of stairs, and my palms are getting disgustingly sweaty inside my skin suit. Outwardly, though, I remain calm.
"I hope these help you, Officer," says Edgar, handing me a thumb drive. I take it and slip it into a pocket – or try to. Unfortunately, my pockets are no more real than anything else on this suit, which means they go in for just deep enough to preserve the illusion, and then terminate in a solid wall. The thumb drive skids off of this, slips out of my fingers and falls to the floor.
I drop into a crouch to pick it up. As I do, I hear a slight rubber tearing noise, and I freeze. Edgar's standing right over me, so I can't check, but I'm pretty sure that that sound was the cut I made in my fly tearing further. I have no idea how far it goes now. Is it minor? Or have I split my suit halfway open? I've got to get out of here before he notices.
"If you don't mind me asking, what do you hope to find on these?" Edgar asks as I stand up.
I had an answer prepared, but it's all flown out of my mind, so I give the standard police-drama response: "I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to comment on ongoing investigations."
"Of course, I understand," says Edgar. "Can I offer you some coffee or anything while you're here?"
"Thank you, but no. I'm afraid I need to get going."
"Ah, trouble waits for no man. I imagine your partner is waiting in the car?"
"My wife, actually." Then I realize that he probably meant police partner, not person-you-live-with-but-aren't-married-to, and scramble to cover. "I'm not actually on duty right now, but I stopped by here on the way out with the wife."
"A day out! Glad to hear they're not working you too hard. What's her name?"
I say the first name that comes into my head. "Samantha."
Edgar's brow furrows. "And your name is Sam, yes?"
I am the world's biggest idiot. "Ha ha, yes! We've been hearing those jokes for years. And answering the phone at home! 'Can I speak to Sam?' 'Which one?' I mean, that's how it would go if we still had a landline. We use cellphones, of course. Also, mostly people calling for me ask for Peterson, so that clears it up. Though obviously it's her last name, too."
So much for modulating the speed of my voice. Edgar, fortunately, just looks vaguely embarrassed for me, not suspicious.
"Yes, well," he says. "I won't keep you if you have places to be. I hope this helps you."
"I'm certain it will."
"Do you have a card?" asks Edgar, and I automatically reach for my pocket, where my fingers once again bounce off the bottom hidden just inside.
"No, sorry, I've left them at the station," I say. "If I need anything else, though, I'll be sure to call you. You've been very helpful."
"Just doing my duty to help the law, Officer," Edgar says smarmily. I resist the urge to punch him.
The whole way across the atrium and back down the steps, I'm convinced that I can feel the bottom half of my suit flapping back and forth as I walk. I can feel people staring, and can practically see them taking out their cell phones to take pictures of the policeman with the leg of his pants tearing free, showing his boxers. This is not the subtle exit I wanted to make.
I keep my head up and my gaze forward, though, and make it back to the car without anyone stopping me. I collapse exhaustedly into the passenger's seat, dropping the thumb drive into the cupholder.
"How did it go?" asks Regina, starting the car.
"Oh man. Nerve-wracking,"
I say, finally looking down to see how bad the damage is. There is in fact a rip at the bottom of the fly, which stretches less than an inch and doesn't appear to go entirely through the suit for most of its length. I've spent the whole walk back panicking over nothing.
"Yeah? Did he give you a hard time?"
"No – honestly, I think he wanted to be friends. I was just too afraid of blowing my cover. And man, the next time I do this, I'm growing a suit with functioning pockets."
"Yeah, welcome to women's fashion. Get a purse."
"Oh yeah, that'd go real well with my police uniform. Badge, gun, handcuffs, handbag. Fully accessorized!"
Regina snorts in an undignified fashion, and I let out a shaky laugh myself.
"Man, I can't wait to get home," I say. "I think I'm starting to prune up from all of the sweat in this suit."
"Boy, you sure know how to charm the ladies, Dan."
"Hey, I bet if I tore the end off of a pinky, I could pour some of the sweat onto you."
"Try it and you'll be walking home."
- Chapter Eight -
Back at the house, I'm finally ready to get out of that rubber suit. I'm in my bedroom, carefully drawing a line down the center of my chest with a box cutter, when Regina calls out from the kitchen, "Hey, Dan!"
"What?" I ask, with some asperity.
"Just wanted to know if you needed a hand taking the suit off. Don't bite my head off."
"Sorry. You made me jump while I was holding a knife next to my vital organs, is all. Yeah, help would probably be awesome."
I wander out to the kitchen, my newly-applied chest wound flexing and gaping in odd ways as I move. Regina makes a face.
"I know I said the same thing this morning, but even more so now – that's seriously creepy. You look like a bodysnatcher hiding inside a skin suit."
"Yeah, well, this bodysnatcher is regretting his choices in not getting a more breathable skin suit. Help me cut this thing off so I can quit stewing in my own juices."
The Experiment (Book 3): Infectious Thinking Page 5