Soul Source: Back and There Again

by Charles Vella

  Mike shrugged. "Dazed at first. When I got there he was on his knees laughing hysterically. Then scared. Then figured keeping his mouth shut was good strategy. Then forgot how to talk. I actually made detective the week of the crime so I spent hours interviewing him. If you can call'em interviews. The senior detective gave up and I did all the talking. He just stared. Like watching the paint dry on a portrait. Man Scared Shitless. After a while I talked just to fill the time. About me. My family. Fishing. He never said a word." Mike shook his head.

  "Well he must've liked what you said. He suddenly wants to talk and only you'll do."

  "He tell you anything?"

  "All he said was your name. Guard monitoring the cell thought he was hearing things. Said it sounded like a frog croaking. They called me because I'm his lawyer of record but he just stared across the table at me the way he's stared at everyone for the past twenty-four years. So I called you."

  "Because he said my name? You, his lawyer, call a retired cop?"

  "A guy spends twenty-four years in jail for a crime he may or may not've committed and never says a word?" Honeycutt shrugged. "Seemed worth finding out what's on his mind."

  "Why? This is all ancient history. No one gives a shit anymore." Except maybe a washed out ex-cop with nothing else to do with his time.

  "That's not accurate." Not accurate. That's what law school's for. To learn to say not accurate instead of bullshit. Honeycutt rested his hands on the table top and leaned toward Mike. "That man's life's been spent behind bars. Other people escaped. Justice hasn't been served."

  Mike stared into his eyes, saw the intensity sag to uncertainty as if he wondered whether he sounded naive or pompous.

  "OK," Mike sighed. "So why me?" He leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his knuckles. Stared up at the small blue square high up in the wall. Twenty-four years with that being all you saw of the world. Never saying a word. How the hell'd he remember how to talk? And why the hell'd he want to talk to the guy who'd put him here?

  Honeycutt shrugged, suddenly just a guy sent to waste time with some geriatric ex-cop. "Who knows? I sure don't. And it doesn't make any difference anyway. All that matters is whether you're going to talk to him. So. You going to talk to him?" He stared across the table and tried to look disinterested. A young guy pulled into ancient history who wanted to make the stay as short as possible, but Mike could feel the tension radiating from that expensive suit like a low grade electrical charge. What was his game? This wasn't some newly minted mouthpiece the firm'd shoved into some obligation it didn't feel it could wiggle out of. This guy was young, but fast track young. You couldn't miss them. Not after a career feeling the soles of their shoes on your back. "Will you let me know what he says? If he says anything?" Honeycutt answered his own question.

  Mike didn't bother to answer. He hauled himself to his feet, grabbed his jacket and tapped on the door. The guard pulled it open. Mike turned and shot a last look at the lawyer still sitting at the scarred table, Honeycutt's eyes following him like a raptor gauging height and speed relative to how far the chipmunk was from its hole.

  Mike walked past the guard, the guy they would've called the screw in old movies, and disappeared. The guard looked at the lawyer through the open door with raised eyebrows.

  "Give me a minute. I've gotta make a call."

  The guard shrugged and pushed the door closed. Honeycutt sat in the empty room. What'd it all mean? He shook his head as he projected a screen on the back of his hand and tapped his speed dial list. Who knows. Whatever it is though, it's nothing good.

  "Mr. Hartron? He's here."

  3

  Towne Square at Cyber World?

  These computer generated names make you wish for the marketing majors to come back. And what needs were the algorithms calibrated to meet anyway? Nostalgia rolled up with hope for the future? Towne Square at Cyber World? Who fixes their cars, Ye Olde Quantum Mechanic?

  Agnes shook her head as the far suburbs of gated communities receded into the city's outer ring of slums, boarded up stores, and people sitting and staring into space. Flashing screens peddled the lottery, the government's way of taxing the poor to provide services to the dwindling middle class so that they wouldn't have to tax the rich. No money to buy a lottery ticket? Other screens offered top dollar for your vital organs. Who says America isn't the land of opportunity?

  Drones flickered past, the laws unenforceable outside the DC electronic net, mixed in with the odd bird falling from the sky into the path of her car, which rolled over them with the ease with which it navigated the pot holes. She looked straight ahead, not returning the stares that followed her through the dying concrete wasteland. What did they think, those people, slumping on curbs and stoops, watching other people with somewhere to go use them as a bridge?

  "Connecticut Avenue gate."

  "That route will add approximately seven minutes," the car admonished in the slightly menacing voice the salesman had picked when she'd said she didn't care. Must be the voice they saved for customers with bad attitudes.

  "I want to look at the buildings." And why the hell was she explaining herself to the car? Kids born today are lucky. They'll grow up used to their electronics being smarter than they are.

  She could've sworn the thing harrumphed, but it was probably just the thump of a pothole. They rolled past a parked column of Homeland Security vehicles and stopped in front of the gate. Scanners identified her car and the outer gate trundled open. They waited until it was completely open and passed through, then stopped again while the gate closed behind them. Hot, wet air enveloped Agnes as all the windows slid open. Men and women, you couldn't tell which was which with all that combat gear, swarmed out of the checkpoint's black glass doors and surrounded the car. Ha. Got you.

  Agnes stuck her pass out the window. The electronic passes to the city hadn't lasted six months. So many hackers got into the database that there were probably more forged than genuine ones. Another victory for the government's philosophy of going to the lowest bidder. A figure stepped warily forward from the circle surrounding her car and scanned her pass. Why didn't the hackers go after the scanners? Force everyone to wear badges with their pictures around their necks like the nineteen fifties. Hadn't gotten around to it? Realized that there really wasn't enough of value in the nation's capital to be worth hacking into? They had but no one wanted to admit it? Who knows?

  The car dropped her off in front of the restaurant and Agnes had barely gotten through the door before the maître d' appeared at her elbow. She'd've preferred a few seconds to take a deep breath and prepare herself for whatever it was that was so important that she'd had to drop everything and meet Rick for lunch. But her brain had only begun shifting when Andre shimmered up in a silk suit draped over his thin shoulders and a smile that managed to be both obsequious and superior on his hatchet face.

  "Good afternoon Madam Bauer," he sniffed down a long straight nose, his lips twitching up in the center like some kind of suited rodent. "Will you go directly to your table?"

  "Yes thanks Andre," she said, not bothering to correct the madam. The French didn't give you a lot of choice for what to call women. Too old for mademoiselle. Docteur too pretentious. So go with madam and aim for the proper amount of superiority in her voice for a head waiter at an exclusive restaurant. What kind of city was it where you ended up in power struggles with the waiters? The same kind of city it'd always been.

  She followed Andre's skinny swagger past the subdued clatter of expensive cutlery and voices murmured in discreet conversation. He nodded benignly to select patrons as they passed. The faces following her progress didn't usually bother her. In fact, she generally liked the attention. This was a place to be seen. But she had a bad feeling about this conversation. Wished Rick had picked someplace more private. What did they want from her? Nothing that urgent could be good. She'd lain awake the night before, running the possibilities past in her mind. She glanced around t
he room, nodding at acquaintances, smiling the smile of someone whose stomach wasn't sinking further with each step.

  She'd caught sight of Rick Hartron over Andre's thin shoulder almost as soon as they'd entered the dining room. Rick was hard to miss, even sitting at his regular table in the corner as far from the door as possible. Six-foot-four, carrying around a lifetime of expensive meals and easy living. He seemed to fill any space to overflowing. Shouldering the responsibility of being Texan and making sure everyone knew it. Putting the rest of the world in its place by constantly assuring everyone they were just as good as him. Rick'd learned to deal with people he considered below him in the social scale by interacting with the gardener. He had the manners of someone raised in elite boarding schools who wanted everyone to know he was just one of the boys. He waved a big hand over his head as they approached, as if that's the only way Andre would find his way to the table.

  "Found her?" he asked jovially. Andre flashed the smug smile he reserved for the lame jokes of the truly important. Rick moved his chair back an inch in a feeble gesture as a waiter appeared at Andre's elbow and pulled one of the two open chairs away from the table. Three chairs but only two place settings. Agnes sat as Andre offered her a smile, ratcheted down for a more plebian patron, nodded to Rick with practiced familiarity that made Rick feel generous without being presumptuous, gave the waiter a severe stare for no apparent reason, did an about face, and marched away like a tin soldier going off to battle.

  "You're late."

  "The freedom check took forever." She shook her head. "We're turning into a police state."

  "If a police state's the price we pay for freedom then it's worth it."

  "And then the holiday traffic. How can people be putting up Christmas decorations in July?"

  "I know, I know. The president's ceremonial Thanksgiving turkey shoot's next week already." He glanced around to let her know he was letting her in on a secret. "Not usin a shotgun this year. Automatic weapons." He nodded sagely. "Gonna take down a whole shit load'uv'em. Give what's left to the poor. Screen-friendly stuff. Drink?"

  "Just water. Still water," she clarified for the waiter, who made sedate yet frantic hand signals to another waiter who was evidently in charge of watering the patrons. Whoever said technology had done away with all the service jobs obviously hadn't eaten here.

  "Not tap water," Rick warned.

  "I said water, not an enema."

  "Of course not," the waiter raised himself to his full five foot four, ready to defend the honor of the maison. Rick waved him off. "Bottle'a water."

  "Had another sewer main break," Risk said in a lowered voice, his big head hovering halfway across the table. "Spewin God knows what-all into the reservoir."

  "I didn't hear anything about that." Like she'd've drunk the water in this city before the latest pipe burst.

  "Keepin it quiet. Official line's there's no reason to think it's terrorism so's everyone'll think it is, but it's no more terrorism than my Aunt Fanny. Just pipes laid down when McKinley was president finally givin up the ghost. Don't want to cause a panic by tellin people who can't afford bottled water how poisonous that shit is. Anyways," he settled back in his chair and grinned. "No money to fix it, so drinkin that shit's drinkin that shit."

  Agnes smiled wanly as Rick chuckled at his wit. A waiter appeared behind each of them holding a menu the size of an area rug. She waved him off. "Just the salade maison."

  "Beefsteak au poivre," Rick added in the excellent French that he usually had to hide as a senior government official. "With frites. Lotsa frites. Tell the cook it's for me. Go ahead and keep the vegetables," he added as if he hadn't eaten lunch here almost every day since coming to Washington. "And tell'im not to cook the thing into leather," he called to the waiter's back. "Gotta watch these Frenchies with steaks," he confided across the small table. "They like to burn'em at the stake til there's nothin left. Think they're all Jeanne d'Arc." He said it like a Parisian. "Although truth be told," he added with a chuckle. "The head chef's from Wisconsin."

  "Then why do you eat here?" Agnes asked as she watched the waiter scurry off with the air of a man who had a critical mission in his care.

  "Because they still have steak on the menu."

  "Hard to get steak since the President cut out the beef subsidies."

  Rick grunted. The sound of a man who'd betrayed his class for political reasons and found it amusing rather than troubling.

  "You can still get it you can afford it."

  "Spoken like a true democrat."

  Rick guffawed. At least he had the manners to laugh too loudly at other people's jokes too.

  "So how's business?" If there was a point to this meeting he wasn't getting any help from her bringing it up. She certainly wasn't going to ask about he chair sitting empty next to her.

  "Now Agnes," he admonished with a sly look. He wagged a thick finger in front of her. "You know it's all in a blind trust while I serve the taxpayers. But," he added, not able to help himself. "From what I read on the screens things're good. Branching out into GPS implants for kids. Parents eating it up. We're making it a subscription service. Like a screen. Keep'em payin every month and charge'em a reactivation fee if they miss a payment." He shook his head. "Like shootin fish in a barrel. Sellin security to an American's easier'n sellin a life vest to a drowning man. We're a country of paranoiacs. I mean, what other country'd flood the streets with cops and then tell its citizens they got a right to carry weapons? You gotta love it."

  "I'm afraid it doesn't make any sense to me."

  "Cmon now Agnes. Don't gimme that. Great for business. What's more American than guns? Everyone wants guns. Everyone wants security. Long as they don't have any ideology Homeland Security lets'em go to town." He waved his big hands in the air. "It's their constitutional right to blow each other to smithereens."

  "And those same people don't get their kids vaccinated because they think fighting polio is a government plot."

  Rick chuckled and shook his big head. Americans. Gotta love'em.

  They killed time with small talk until the silent drill team of white-coated servers swooped down with Agnes's salad, a steak that sprawled over the sides of Rick's plate as if a steer'd been shot trying to cross it, and a cereal bowl overflowing with fries. Rick glowered at the servers until they got all of the plates lined up with the accuracy of a space shuttle launch under the watchful eye of their waiter then disappeared into whatever crannies they'd crawled out of.

  "Is that the normal size?"

  "They know me here," he said, sawing off a piece of meat and jamming it into his mouth. "Treat me right," he said through a mouthful of steak. She smiled and looked over his shoulder.

  "So," he finally said after swallowing, staring at his plate. "You probably want to know what's so damn important to drag you all the way down here."

  "You mean this isn't a social call?"

  He set his fork down and reached a beefy hand across the table to cover one of hers.

  "You're still an attractive woman Agnes." He hadn't gotten the nickname Rick Hard-on for nothing.

  "Still?" She pulled her hand away. "You really know how to impress a girl Rick. What's next? Ask me about my grandchildren? Take my advice and stick to cocktail waitresses."

  He laughed, although someone who didn't know him could be forgiven for mistaking it for a grunt. Sent a small spray she avoided looking at across his food. Bobbed his head in appreciation. Pulled his hand back, picked up his fork, stabbed his steak and restarted the buzz saw of his knife with the smooth motion of someone who got a lot of practice.

  "If this is so important wouldn't your office be more appropriate?"

  "My office?" He shook his head. "Too many bugs. Other side's got it wired like you wouldn't believe."

  "The Russians?"

  He shook his head. "FBI."

  "Aren't you worried this place is bugged?"

  "Oh it's bugged alright. But we're
the ones buggin it. Sides, the union demanded telework for cleaning crews. My place is a mess. No unions here. Mosta these fellas are illegals." He waved a fork in the air.

  "Alright. So here we are. Now what's so important?"

  "Ever hear of MITCo? The Project?" he said with the studied indifference that told her he was finally getting to the point.

  She stared back without answering. Her skin went cold, as if it'd been dunked in ice water. She must be white as a ghost, but fortunately she was looking at the bald spot on top of Rick's head as he focused on his food. Like most men he could only concentrate on one thing at a time.

  "The rumor is they're working on time travel," she said, surprised at how steady her voice was. "But they're very close-mouthed about it. Seems a little far-fetched to me. More likely it's something more prosaic like some advanced weapon system or a dietary supplement."

  "Think so?" His eyes darted around the room before glancing at Agnes then returning to his steak. "They're more'n workin on it. They're sendin people back in time. Not very far back mind you." He jammed his fork into a piece of meat, sat back and waved his fork in the air again. A conductor who'd speared a cow. "Seems to be more complicated the farther back you go or somethin." He shrugged. "Anyways, MITCo bought the project from the venture capitalists long time ago. Say twenty years. Maybe a little more. Guy named Tomas Lestard ran it back then. But the real brains were two whiz kids, Ted Huang and Pruitt Root. They've pretty much run the place since old Lestard retired to his farm in France after his stroke."

  "Were? Ran? We seem to be talking past tense." She took a deep breath and worked hard at not looking at him. "Are they gone?"

  "One'uv'em is."

  "Which one?" Rick's head darted up and gave her a searching look. She realized she was squeezing her fork hard enough to bend it. She flashed him a smile and shook her head. Forced a tone of lightness into her voice. "Come on Rick," she needled. "Get to the point."

  Rick nodded, although his brow was lined enough to say she needed to be more careful. Much more careful. She was always tempted to think Rick was stupid because he was such a jerk.