As a couple of security cops ran over, the man in the Mickey Mouse jacket shouted, “Acolytes and adepts! Withdraw!” The cake- and pie-smeared vandals piled back into the van and it burned rubber across the parking lot, scattering shoppers out of the way, and disappeared into traffic.
Steve ran over and helped Susie to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Where’s Jerry?”
Steve found him still doubled over and sat him upright. “Is everyone else all right?”
The group nodded and mumbled yes miserably, wiping cake, jam, and fruit from their faces and clothes.
“Who was that?” said Tommy.
“It could have only been one bunch: those Cladis Abaddonis bastards,” said Steve.
“Why go after us?” said Tommy.
“And how did they know where we’d be?” said Susie.
“They came after us because they’re heathen assholes, that’s why,” said Steve. “And I bet I know how they found us. It was that Coop guy. He probably saw one of our pendants the other night and sent the Abaddonians after us.”
“Maybe he’s been with them all along,” said Susie.
“Son of a bitch,” said Steve. “I’m going to kick that private eye’s ass until he finds him.”
Leonard pulled Jerry to his feet. “Dad,” he said. “I might be able to help.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THEY’D STARTED WORK AT NINE THIRTY IN THE MORNING. It was now past two. No one had eaten lunch. The coffee was gone and so were the donuts someone had stolen from the break room. Basically, it was an office full of frustrated, caffeine-deprived, sugar-crashing psychopaths. Bayliss had an energy bar hidden in her jacket pocket, but there was no way she was letting anybody know that. Especially Nelson. Locked in the room all day, he hadn’t been able to get at his flask. Bayliss tried not to take such delight in watching him sweat and get shaky, but if she could have read Coop and Giselle’s minds, she might have been able to take some comfort in knowing they felt the same way.
They were in the same office where they’d taken Coop on his first day at the DOPS. Now the big table was covered in blueprints, thaumaturgic scans, Kirlian satellite photos, and spectral charts of Mr. Babylon’s Laurel Canyon mansion.
Coop held up an overhead photo showing the residence’s aura. It was black, and spikes around the edges looked like angry crab claws.
“I hate these damned spook mansions. The last time I did a job in one I landed in jail,” Coop said.
“That’s because someone gave you up to the cops,” said Giselle. “That’s not going to happen this time. Remember that we’re in this with you.”
“Cops saving me from cops. It’s a little surreal.”
“At least it’s one less thing to worry about,” said Bayliss.
“Still. The whole thing feels cursed. I was hoping the box would be in a nice bank vault or nuclear missile silo. Those I could handle. This place is a mess.”
“Why?” said Bayliss. “Talk us through it.”
Coop tossed the photo onto the table and stretched his back. “Everything I can see, it’s all designed so you might be able to get in, but you won’t be able to get out. Or there’s a way out, but there’s no way in without setting off fifty alarms.”
Earlier, Nelson had found a drawer full of pencils in a nearby table. He’d spent most of the past hour flipping them overhead at the ceiling. He’d gotten pretty good at it. The acoustic tiles bristled with skinny yellow stalactites. “I told you this guy was a bum,” he said. He continued in a squeaky mocking voice. “Look at me. I’m magic. I’m Tinkerbell. I can get in anywhere.”
“Like you’re any help,” said Bayliss. “Let him work this out.” She looked at Coop. “Can we get you inside with a disguise? You can be there to repair the kitchen sink or deliver a package.”
Coop shook his head. “That still leaves the problem of getting out. The room where Babylon has the box is a complete clusterfuck. There’s no way I can sneak in and out of there without somebody noticing.” He picked up his empty coffee cup for the twentieth time and set it down in disgust. “And even if it’s possible to get in, we’re only assuming he’s keeping the box in his vault. What if he has it in his bedroom? Or he’s using it to store paper clips in his office?”
“He hasn’t opened it. Trust me. We’d know. Every lightbulb and computer in the world would be down,” said Bayliss.
“How exactly do we know it’s in the vault?”
“Our psychics department told us,” said Nelson.
“The DOPS psychics? The bunch who couldn’t figure out when I was stealing the box? Bang-up job. Very reassuring.”
“Bitch. Whine. Bitch.”
“Fine,” Coop said to Nelson. “What’s your plan, Keyser Söze?”
Nelson tossed a pencil at the ceiling, then turned to Coop. “I say we go in guns blazing. A total D-Day operation. We can tell the press we found the real bin Laden.”
“That’s original, I’ll give you that,” said Giselle. “Dumb, but original.”
Coop pointed to a spot on the blueprints. “You send a bunch of agents in through the front door, all you’ll end up with is a lot of dust, bones, and teeth. Maybe someone’s pinky, but that’s being optimistic.”
“So you say, Gandalf,” said Nelson.
“Look at the plans yourself.”
Nelson picked up his pencils and leaned back in his chair. “I’m a supervisor. I’m your supervisor. I’m not here to do your job for you.” He tossed a pencil. It missed and hit him on the head. “Goddammit.”
Bayliss went over to where Coop was looking over the spectral charts, showing the strength of the curses in different parts of the house. “What my partner means is he doesn’t know how to read blueprints or any of the rest of this.”
“And you do?” said Nelson.
“Of course. It’s part of basic training.”
Nelson said, “It’s part of basic training,” in the same squeaky voice he’d used on Coop.
“How did you not learn any of this?”
Nelson considered the question. “Wait a minute. Maybe I did and can’t remember.” He looked at Giselle. “Are you messing with my mind? Are you in on something with him?” he said, pointing to Coop.
“Right. I love sitting in this room with your gin sweat and no coffee.”
“It’s whiskey sweat, kitten.”
“Just because you can’t do your job, suddenly it’s my fault. Why don’t you get your toy crucifix and go eat a burrito?”
Nelson pointed at her. “How do you know I like burritos?”
“Unknot your diapers. Everybody likes burritos,” said Coop.
“Personally, I like the plantain chips more,” said Giselle.
“You’ve been following me,” said Nelson. “What are you up to?”
“I just like watching you gobble down an ebola and black beans grande with a side of dizzy juice.”
“Are you two in this together? Is this a conspiracy?”
“Leave me out of this. I’m a McDonald’s man, myself,” said Coop.
“Relax,” said Bayliss. “She just came by one time so we could talk.”
“I don’t remember that. When was it?”
Bayliss looked at Giselle. “Um . . .”
“It was just the other day. You weren’t there,” said Giselle.
“Aha! But you’ve never been there without me. Have you?”
Bayliss looked away.
“No. You’re too honest to lie about it. So, you two are in on something,” said Nelson, pointing to Bayliss and Giselle. Then he turned to Coop. “And you most of all. You’re all in on it together.”
“We’re trying to steal the Constitution,” said Giselle. “Haven’t you seen the movie? There’s a treasure map on the back.”
Nelson looked back and forth between Giselle and Coop.
Coop said, “Calm down, kids. We’re all just doing our jobs. All I want is a way this heist doesn’t get me killed or arrested.�
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Nelson aimed a pencil at Giselle. “Why can’t the Scarlet Witch just turn invisible and walk you in and out the front door?”
“Wow, Dr. Who. You just saved the day,” said Coop.
“What Coop means is that a Marilyn is the first thing Babylon would have thought of,” said Giselle.
“They have wards and hexes everywhere,” said Coop. “No one clouds anyone’s mind in there.”
“Lucky them,” said Nelson. He looked at Giselle. “If she’s a third wheel around here, then why is she still around?”
“Unlike you, I’m trying to help figure out how to make this plan work,” Giselle said.
“What about the roof?” said Bayliss. “Or here. The pipes to the Roman pools. Those are big enough for you to swim through.”
Coop ran his hand over the top of the blueprints. “The roof is loaded with pressure sensors. And even if you could get through, there’s the piranhas.”
“There’s a pool up there?”
“No. An aviary.”
“Babylon has flying piranhas?”
“Babylon has flying piranhas,” said Coop. “And I can’t get in through the pipes because—”
“Let me guess,” said Nelson. “Fire-breathing underwater spider monkeys.”
“No. Explosives around the intake.”
“Damn. So close.”
Coop glanced in his coffee cup again. “I wish we had some fire-breathing monkeys. They could torch the place.”
“How would that help?” said Giselle. “Do you want to go in and die of smoke inhalation?”
“No. I just think it would be fun to burn it down.”
There was a light knock at the door and Salzman came in. “Good afternoon, everyone. I don’t want to interrupt anything, but I wanted to come by and see how you were all doing.”
Coop picked up a spectral chart and dropped it on the desk. “We’re not. Doing, that is. From what I’ve seen on these papers, the job can’t be done. It’s impossible.”
Salzman pushed the papers away from the end of the desk and sat down. “It’s not your job to tell me it’s impossible. It’s your job to tell me how you’re going to do it.”
“How come every time I point out that this job won’t work, one of you helpful schoolmarms says ‘try harder’?”
“Because you’re a—”
“Do not say it.”
“Fuddy-duddy.”
“That’s it. I quit.”
“Fine,” said Salzman. “The prison van will be by for you in an hour. In the meantime, Nelson, why don’t you cuff him?”
“Wait,” said Giselle. “I take it back. He’s not a fuddy-duddy. And he’s telling the truth about the job.”
Coop pushed away some of the plans on the table. “According to this crap, everything is going to get us killed. And by ‘us’ I mean ‘me.’”
“Then do something else,” said Salzman through gritted teeth. “Every building has a weak spot. You just haven’t found this one’s yet.”
“We’re going to need more time,” said Coop.
Nelson came around the table with his cuffs out. Salzman held up a hand to stop him. “Oh, man,” Nelson said.
“How much more time?”
“A week. At least.”
“You have two days.” Coop started to say something, but Salzman pointed to Nelson and Coop shut up. “After I leave here I’m going upstairs to Mr. Woolrich’s office to tell him that you’re well on your way to forming a solid plan of attack. Do not make me a liar.” He turned to Nelson. “Put the cuffs away. For now.”
Nelson remained on Salzman’s side of the room and pointed at the others. “These three are up to something. I don’t know what, but they’re all in on it together.”
Salzman looked them over with his milky eyes. “Excellent. A conspiracy demonstrates real teamwork and initiative. Congratulations. It sounds like you’re off and running.”
“Just one more thing,” said Coop. He drummed his fingers on the table a couple of times. “We need to be absolutely clear on one thing. If I get you the box and come out of this alive, that’s it. I’m free and clear to go.”
Salzman nodded. “That is the agreement. Get us the box and you’re as free as—”
“A fire-breathing spider monkey?” said Giselle.
Salzman stood up, straightened his jacket. “Do we have those? I’d love to see one.”
“Me, too.”
“Go check with the lab boys and get back to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Salzman started to leave when Nelson said, “Sir. What about the conspiracy?”
Salzman turned to him. “Go have a burrito and a drink. It’s all you’re good for these days.” He turned and left.
“Sounds like a good plan to me.” Nelson got up and followed.
Coop went back to the schematics. Bayliss excused herself to use the restroom and ate her energy bar. Giselle took one of Nelson’s pencils and tossed it into the ceiling.
“Bull’s-eye,” she said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE STRANGER CAME INTO THE CITY ACROSS THE Golden Gate Bridge, crossing from the warmth of Marin into the fog of San Francisco Bay. The mist was cold and wet, but in a pleasant way. He pulled his jacket tight around him. Tourists shivered in spectacularly inappropriate shorts, taking snapshots of each other against the swirling gray background. Joggers and cars passed by.
The stranger looked over the edge of the bridge, thinking of all the suicides the Golden Gate had inspired. Wouldn’t it be glorious to see one of those? He looked around hopefully, but no one seemed interested in taking the bait. Disappointed, he kept walking.
He went through a parking lot at the end of the bridge where other bridge walkers had left their cars, and continued into the city. It had been a long walk from Red Bluff, and he had a longer walk still to go, but there was plenty of time to make it. As long as he didn’t linger too long at any one place. The trick was to plan his city excursion. The stranger took out a well-thumbed city guide, at least ten years old. He examined the dog-eared pages, compared them to his map, and plotted what looked like a good route, tracing promising fault lines and old cemeteries that had been plowed under during one of the city’s fabulously corrupt building booms.
San Francisco was a dense city, but it wasn’t large. He’d once walked from its far eastern edge to the ocean in five hours. This time, it only took him two hours to reach his first stop: an old music club he’d been to with friends years earlier. He walked through the SoMa district, got lost twice, but eventually found the address. But not the club. It was gone. All that was left was a weedy, fenced-off vacant lot with a sign showing a picture of a gleaming twenty-story condo tower that the sign said would soon occupy the lot. There was a phone number of a realty company and a photo of an attractive man and woman in matching company jackets. They looked like brother and sister. Or clones. Did everybody know how to clone yet, or was it just real estate companies? It was something to look into.
The stranger tore the page from his guidebook and dropped it into a recycling bin on the corner before moving on.
He walked to North Beach, past the Tosca Café, Specs’ bar, and City Lights Books. He’d been to all those places on earlier trips and was relieved to see them still there. Just across the alley from City Lights was the Vesuvio Café. That, too, was still intact. But he’d also been there before, so he decided to try somewhere new. The stranger walked around the corner onto Broadway and down the block, looking at the Bay Bridge in the distance. He checked the address of a café in his guidebook and went inside.
He ordered a double espresso from a young man at the counter. A lot of the people in the café had various piercings and tattoos. The stranger also had tattoos, but he kept them hidden. They weren’t for anyone’s eyes but his and those of a few close associates. He hoped for a reunion of sorts soon, but not today. Today, he would sit in a café, drink coffee, and look at his guidebook.
When the barista called the na
me he’d give him, the stranger went to the counter to pick up his coffee. There was a large framed photo on the wall behind the cash register. Three young men. One in baggy dress pants and two in jeans. As he paid for his coffee, the stranger nodded toward the picture.
“It must be interesting working where they used to drink,” he said.
The young man looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m not from around here.”
“But surely you recognize them. That’s William Burroughs on the end.”
The barista looked again. “That’s a real old photo. Were they a band? My buddy, Ryan, is into all kinds of seventies classic bands. I think I’ve heard of them. Burroughs Turner Overdrive?”
“You’re thinking of Bachman-Turner Overdrive. And they were Canadian. No, that’s William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. They were writers.”
The barista frowned. “Maybe. I’m not really a word guy. I’m more into hyperedge interactive visual happenings. Music. Video. Lights.”
“Yes. That began in this area, too. In the mid-nineteen-sixties. They were called Acid Tests.”
The young man shook his head. “You sure? I’ve never heard of them.”
The stranger smiled. “Of course. Why would you? They’re old and gone. What’s the use of old things? The now. The future. The unexpected twists and turns down the road. Those are the only things of value.”
“Exactly,” said the barista. “You get it.”
“Thank you for the coffee.”
The young man waved a counter rag at him and helped the next customer. The stranger drank his coffee, but didn’t stay. He was restless. So much had changed. It wasn’t his place to judge—that was for wiser heads than his—but it was hard not to be a little peeved at humanity’s capacity to forget. To minimize even its own accomplishments.
The Everything Box Page 21