A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Oh, right.”

  He steps closer and stands over me. “I hope you enjoyed your little fling with the Answer. You can keep whatever money you made, but that’s it for you.”

  “Hey, if you think I’m giving up a gold mine like that, you’re nuts.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say something like that.”

  He reaches into his suit coat pocket and pulls out a pistol. I don’t know what kind it is and don’t care. All I know is that its silenced muzzle is pointing in my face.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  “Good-bye, Michael Moulton. I was hoping to be able to reason with you, but you’re too big an asshole for that. You don’t leave me any choice.”

  I see the way the gun wavers in his hand, I hear the quaver in his voice as he keeps talking without shooting, and I flash that this sort of thing is all new to him and he’s almost as scared as I am right now.

  So I move. I leap up, grab the gun barrel, and push it upward, twisting it with everything I’ve got. Nickleby yelps as the gun goes off with a phut! The backs of his legs catch the edge of the coffee table and we go down. I land on him hard, knocking the wind out of him, and suddenly I’ve got the gun all to myself.

  I get to my feet and now I’m pointing it at him. And then he makes a noise that sounds like a sob.

  “Damn it! Damn it to hell! Go ahead and shoot. I’ll be a dead man anyway if you go on using the Answer. And so will you.”

  I consider this. He doesn’t seem to be lying. But he doesn’t seem to be thinking either.

  “I don’t think we need funeral plans yet. I mean, why should we be afraid of this Order? We have the word—the Answer. All we have to do is threaten to tell the world about it. Tell them we’ll record it on a million tapes—we’ll put it on every one of those videotapes you’re peddling. Hell, we’ll buy air time and broadcast it by satellite. They make one wrong move and the whole damn world will have the Answer. What’ll that do to their agenda?”

  He looks up at me bleakly. “You can’t record it. You can’t tell anybody. You can’t even write it down.”

  “Bullshit.”

  This may be a trick so I keep the pistol trained on him while I grab the pen and pad from the phone. I write out the word. I can’t believe my eyes. Instead of the Answer I’ve written gibberish: COPPE.

  “What the hell?”

  I try again, this time block printing. No difference—COPPE again.

  Nickleby’s on his feet now, but he doesn’t try to get any closer.

  “Believe me,” he says, more composed now, “I’ve tried everything. You can speak the Answer into the finest recording equipment in the world till you’re blue in the face and you’ll hear gibberish.”

  “Then I’ll simply tell it to everybody I know!”

  “And what do you think they’ll hear? If they’ve got a question on their mind, they’ll hear the best possible answer. If not, they’ll hear gibberish. What they won’t hear is the Answer itself.”

  “Then how’d these Order guys get it onto your tape?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. They have ways of doing all sorts of things—like finding out when somebody unauthorized uses the Answer. Maybe they know every time anybody uses the Answer. That’s why you’ve got to stop.”

  I don’t reply. I glance down at the meaningless jumble I’ve written without intending to. Something big at work here. Very Big.

  He goes on. “I don’t think it’s too late. My source in the Order told me that if I can silence you—and that doesn’t mean kill you, just stop you from using the Answer—then the Order will let it go. But if you go on using it . . . well, then, it’s curtains for both of us.”

  I’m beginning to believe him.

  A note of pleading creeps into his voice. “I’ll set you up. You want money, I’ll give you money. As much as you want. You want to play the market? Call and ask me the best stock to buy—I’ll tell you. You want to play the ponies? I’ll go to the track with you. You want to be rich? I’ll give you a million—two, three, four million a year. Whatever you want. Just don’t use the Answer yourself!”

  I think about that. All the money I can spend . . .

  What I don’t like about it is I’ll feel like a leech, like I’m being kept.

  Then again: All the money I can spend . . .

  “All right. I won’t use the word and we’ll work something out.”

  Nickleby stumbles over to the sofa like his knees are weak and slumps onto it. He sounds like he’s gonna sob again.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you! You’ve just saved both our lives!”

  “Yeah.”

  Right. I’m going to live, I’m going to be rich. So how come I ain’t exactly overcome with joy?

  Things go pretty well for the next few weeks. I don’t drag him to the track or to Atlantic City or anything like that. And when I phone him and ask for a stock tip, he gives me a winner every time. My net worth is skyrocketing. Gary the broker thinks I’m a genius. I’m on my way to financial independence, untold wealth . . . everything I’ve ever wanted.

  But you know what? It’s not the same. Doesn’t come close to what it was like when I was using the Answer myself.

  Truth is, I feel like Dennis Nickleby’s goddamn mistress.

  But I give myself a daily pep talk, telling myself I can hang in there. And I do hang in there. I’m doing pretty well at playing the melancholy millionaire . . .

  Until I hear on the radio that the next Pick 6 Lotto jackpot is thirty million dollars. Thirty million dollars—with a payout of a million and a half a year for the next twenty years. That’ll do it. If I win that, I won’t need Nickleby anymore. I’ll be my own man again.

  Only problem is, I’ll need to use the Answer.

  I know I can ask Nickleby for the winning numbers, but that won’t cut it. I need to do this myself. I need to feel that surge of power when I speak the Answer. And then the jackpot will be my prize, not Nickleby’s.

  Just once . . . I’ll use the Answer just this once, and then I’ll erase it from my mind and never use it again.

  I go driving into the sticks and find this hole-in-the-wall candy store on a secondary road in the woods. There’s a pimply-faced kid running the counter. How the hell is this Order going to know I’ve used the Answer one lousy time out here in Nowheresville?

  I hand the kid a buck. “Pick Six please.”

  “You wanna Quick Pick?”

  No way I want random numbers. I want the winning numbers.

  “No. I’ll give them to you: COPPE.”

  I can’t tell you how good it feels to be able to say that word again . . . like snapping the reins on my own destiny.

  The kid hits a button, then looks up at me. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “You got to choose six numbers. That’s only one.”

  My stomach lurches. Damn. I thought one Answer would provide all six. Something tells me to cut and run, but I press on. I’ve already used the Answer once—might as well go all the way.

  I say COPPE five more times. He hands me the pink and white ticket. The winning numbers are 3, 4, 7, 17, 28, 30. When the little numbered Ping-Pong balls pop out of the hopper Monday night, I’ll be free of Dennis Nickleby

  So how come I’m not tap dancing back to my car? Why do I feel like I’ve just screwed up . . . big time?

  I stop for dinner along the way. When I get home I check my answering machine and there’s Nickleby’s voice. He sounds hysterical.

  “You stupid bastard! You idiot! You couldn’t be happy with more money than you could ever spend! You had to go and use the Answer again! Damn you to hell, Moulton! An actuator is coming for me! And then he’ll be coming for you! Kiss your ass good-bye, jerk!”

  I don’t hesitate. I don’t even grab any clothes. I run out the door, take the elevator to the garage, and get the hell out of there. I start driving in circles, unsure where to go, just sure that I’ve got to keep moving.

  Truthfully, I feel like
a fool for being so scared. This whole wild story about the Order and impending death is so ridiculous . . . yet so is that word, the word that gives the right answer to every question. And a genuinely terrified Dennis Nickleby knew I’d used it.

  I make a decision and head for the city. I want to be where there’s lots of people. As I crawl through the Saturday night crush in the Lincoln Tunnel I get on my phone. I need a place to stay. Don’t want some fleabag hotel. Want something with brightly lit halls and good security.

  The Plaza’s got a room. A suite. Great. I’ll take it.

  I leave my car with the doorman, register like a whirlwind, and a few minutes later I’m in a two-room suite with the drapes pulled and the door locked and chained.

  And now I can breathe again. But that’s about it. I order room service but I can’t eat. I go to bed but I can’t sleep. So I watch the tube. My eyes are finally glazing over when the reporter breaks in with a new story: Millionaire financial boy-wonder Dennis Nickleby is dead. An apparent suicide, he jumped from the ledge of his Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment earlier this evening. A full investigation has been launched. Details as soon as they are available.

  I run to the bathroom and start to retch, but nothing comes up.

  The actuator—whatever that is—got him. Just like he said. He’s dead and oh God I’m next! What am I going to do?

  First thing I’ve got to do is calm down. Got to think.

  I do that. I make myself sit down. I calm myself. I analyze my situation. What are my assets? I’ve got lots of money, a wallet full of credit cards, and I’m mobile. I can go on the run.

  And I’ve got one more thing: the Answer.

  Suddenly I’m up and pacing. The Answer! I can use the Answer itself as a defense. Yes! If I have to go to ground, it will guide me to the best place to hide.

  Suddenly I’m excited. It’s so obvious.

  I throw on my clothes and hurry down to the street. They probably know my car, so I jump into one of the waiting cabs.

  “Where to?” says the cabby in a thickly accented voice.

  The backseat smells like someone blew lunch here not too long ago. I look at the driver ID card and he’s got some unpronounceable Middle Eastern name.

  I say, “COPPE.”

  He nods, puts the car in gear, and we’re off.

  But where to? I feel like an idiot but I’ve got to ask. I wait till he’s made a few turns, obviously heading for the East Side.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “LaGuardia.” He glances over his shoulder through the plastic partition, his expression fierce. “That is what you said, is it not?”

  “Yes, yes. Just want to make sure you understood.”

  “I understand. I understand very good.”

  LaGuardia . . . I’m flying out of here tonight. A new feeling begins to seep through me: hope. But despite the hope, let me tell you, it’s très weird to be traveling at top speed with no idea where you’re going.

  As we take the LaGuardia exit off Grand Central Parkway, the driver says, “Which airline?”

  “COPPE.”

  He nods and we pull in opposite the Continental door. I pay him and hurry to the ticket counter. I tell the pretty black girl there I want first class on the next flight out.

  “Out to where, sir?”

  Good question.

  “COPPE.”

  She punches a lot of keys and finally her computer spits out a ticket. She tells me the price. I’m dying to know where I’m going but how can I ask her? I hand over my American Express. She runs it through, I sign, and then she hands me the ticket.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming. Not my first choice. Not even on my top-twenty list. But if the Answer tells me that’s the best place to be, that’s where I’m going. Trouble is, the flight doesn’t leave for another three hours.

  I’m here. Now what?

  The drinks I had at the airport and the extra glasses of Merlot on the flight have left me a little groggy. I wander about the nearly deserted terminal wondering what I do now. I’m in the middle of nowhere—Wyoming, for Christ sake. Where do I go from here?

  Easy: Trust the Answer.

  I go outside to the taxi area. The fresh air feels good. A taxi pulls into the curb. I grab it.

  “Where to, sir?”

  This guy’s American. Great.

  “COPPE.”

  “You got it.”

  I try to concentrate on our route as we leave the airport, but I’m not feeling so hot. That’s okay. The Answer’s taking me in the right direction. I trust it. I close my eyes and rest them until I feel the cab come to a halt.

  I straighten up and look around. It’s a warehouse district.

  “Is this it?”

  “You told me 2316 Barrow Street,” the cabby says. He points to a gray door on the other side of the sidewalk. “Here we are.”

  I pay him and get out. 2316 Barrow Street. Never heard of it. The area’s deserted, but what else would you expect in a warehouse district on a Sunday morning?

  Still, I’m a little uneasy now. Hell, I’m shaking in my boxer shorts. But I can’t stand out here all day. The Answer hasn’t let me down yet. Got to trust it.

  I take a deep breath, step up to the door, and knock. And wait. No answer. I knock again, louder this time. Finally the door opens a few inches. An eye peers through the crack.

  A deep male voice says, “Yes?”

  I don’t know how to respond. Figuring there’s an implied question here, I say, “COPPE.”

  The door opens a little wider. “What’s your name?”

  “Michael Moulton.”

  The door swings open and the guy who’s been peeking through straightens up. He’s wearing a gray, pinstripe suit, white shirt, and striped tie. And he’s big—damn big.

  “Mr. Moulton!” he booms. “We’ve been expecting you!”

  A hand the size of a crown roast darts out, grabs me by the front of my jacket, and yanks me inside. Before I can shout or say a word, the door slams behind me and I’m being dragged down a dark hallway. I try to struggle but someone else comes up behind me and grabs one of my arms. I’m lifted off my feet like a styrofoam mannequin. I start to scream.

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Moulton,” says the first guy. “There’s no one around to hear you.”

  They drag me onto a warehouse floor where my scuffling feet and their footsteps echo back from the far walls and vaulted ceiling. The other guy holding me also wears a gray suit. And he’s just as big as the first.

  “Hey, look,” I say. “What’s this all about?”

  They don’t answer me. The warehouse floor is empty except for a single chair and a rickety table supporting a hard-sided Samsonite suitcase. They dump me into the chair. The second guy holds me there while the first opens the suitcase. He pulls out a roll of duct tape and proceeds to tape me into the chair.

  My teeth are chattering now. I try to speak but the words won’t come. I want to cry but I’m too scared.

  Finally, when my body’s taped up like a mummy, they walk off and leave me alone. But I’m alone only for a minute. This other guy walks in. He’s in a suit, too, but pure white; he’s smaller and older; gray at the temples, with bright blue eyes. He stops a couple of feet in front of the chair and stares down at me. He looks like a cabinet member, or maybe a TV preacher, but he carries a black cane.

  “Mr. Moulton,” he says softly with a slow, sad shake of his head and a hint of a German accent. “Foolish, greedy, Mr. Moulton.”

  I find my voice. It sounds hoarse, like I’ve been shouting all night.

  “This is about the Answer, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Look, I can explain—”

  “No explanation is necessary.”

  “I forgot, that’s all. I forgot and used it. It won’t happen again.”

  He nods. “Yes, I know.”

  The note of finality in that statement makes my bladder want to let go.

  “Please . . .”r />
  “We gave you a chance, Mr. Moulton. We don’t usually do that. But because you came into possession of the Answer through no fault of your own, we thought it only fair to let you off the hook. A shame too.” He almost smiles. “You showed some flair at the end . . . led us on a merry chase.”

  “You mean, using the Answer to get away? What did you do—make it work against me?”

  “Oh, no. The Answer always works. You simply didn’t use it enough.”

  “I don’t get it.” I don’t care, either, but I want to keep him talking.

  “The Answer brought you to an area of the country where we have no cells. But the Answer can’t keep you from being followed. We followed you to LaGuardia, noted the plane you boarded, and had one of our members rush up from Denver and wait in a cab.”

  “But when he asked me where to, I gave him the Answer.”

  “Yes, you did. But no matter what you told him, he was going to bring you to 2316 Barrow Street. You should have used the Answer before you got in the cab. If you’d asked someone which cab to take, you surely would have been directed to another, and you’d still be free. But that merely would have delayed the inevitable. Eventually you’d have wound up right where you are now.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  He gazes down at me and his voice has all the emotion of a man ordering breakfast.

  “We are going to kill you.”

  That does it. My bladder lets go and I start to blubber.

  “Mr. Moulton!” I hear him say as he taps his cane. “A little dignity!”

  “Oh, please! Please! I promise—”

  “We already know what your promise is worth.”

  “But look—I’m not a bad guy . . . I’ve never hurt anybody!”

  “Mr. Nickleby might differ with you about that. But don’t be afraid, Mr. Moulton. We are not cruel. We have no wish to cause you pain. That is not our purpose here. We simply have to remove you.”

  “People will know! People will miss me!”

  Another sad shake of his head. “No one will know. And only your broker will miss you. We have eliminated financiers, kings, even presidents who’ve had the Answer and stepped out of line.”