Agents of Change

by Guy Harrison

  ***

  I spend the entire two-and-a-half-hour flight from Miami to Philly thinking about what I am going to say to Donald Richardson. Elena’s right. Richardson’s unlikely to spill his guts about the Arrowhead’s location. Even after a forced retirement, I’m sure his loyalty staunchly remains with the Agency of Influence. Cutting the guy a steady pension can’t hurt, either. I ultimately decided that I should just be straightforward with Richardson. The man should be rational enough to see the inherent danger that exists as long as the Arrowhead is intact.

  I pick up a new rental sedan upon arriving in Philadelphia. When I left South Florida, I was able to explain the wrecked SUV as a casualty of the causeway incident.

  Traveling is a breeze, too. Thanks to the Agency of Justice’s mastery of the Change Machine, I no longer have to worry about being exposed as Philly’s persona non grata. Too bad that’s a luxury I won’t enjoy for long. I intend to destroy the Arrowhead or die trying.

  With my flight landing in the early evening, I immediately drive to East Falls. Richardson’s house is where it all started fourteen months ago. When I pull up to it, I think of Elena. We both have changed so much since our first encounter.

  I get out of the car and approach the house without hesitation.

  Déjà vu.

  I traipse up the colonial’s three small steps, leading to the long path through the home’s sizeable front yard. The home’s two large trees remain, standing tall on either side of the building. And, once again, I hear the kazoo-like call of a bird. It sounds like the same bird that squawked and warned me of my impending poisoning last year.

  When I ring the doorbell, I take a deep breath. I feel like a Jehovah’s Witness, unannounced, uninvited, seeking an awkward conversation with the home’s residents.

  The door swings open. An older woman stands in the doorway.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Uh, hi. I’m here to speak with Donald Richardson. Does he still live here?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her Southern drawl might be thicker than the old man’s. “Whom shall I say is here?”

  “Kevin Stewart. I’m an old associate of his.”

  “Who’s at the door?” I hear Richardson ask in the distance.

  When she tells him who I am, Richardson appears from around the corner, emerging from the kitchen in which Elena poured my poisoned glass of water. It’s odd not to see the man in a suit and tie. Instead, he wears a Hawaiian button-up shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. He also walks with a cane now.

  “Kevin,” he says, approaching the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Are you busy? Can we talk?”

  “Sure,” he says, waving me in.

  The woman widens the door for me to enter.

  “Charlotte,” Richardson says to the woman, “this is Kevin. He used to be one of my agents. Kevin, this is Charlotte, my wife.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kevin,” she says, shaking my hand.

  “Step into my office,” he says, limping away from the door.

  I’m surprised that Richardson is so candid with his wife about what he does, although he never specified what kind of agent I was. Still, when you’re the director of an agency’s branch, it would be difficult to hide it, especially when you make as much as he does.

  “Would you like some water or coffee?” Mrs. Richardson says. The last time I was offered a drink in this house …

  “Do you happen to have any tea?”

  “Yes, of course.” Charlotte breaks away from Donald and me.

  The two of us slip into an office immediately off the home’s entrance. Richardson’s is an old man’s office. Cherry wood floors, a cherry wood desk and a large leather chair. Even the window frame is cherry wood. The office also features two large bookshelves stocked with a variety of books. Classics, contemporary fiction, and movie adaptations can all be checked out of the Richardson Library. I’d spend months in here if I had this office.

  “What happened to your leg?” I say.

  “Oh,” he says waving it off, “had knee replacement surgery a couple months ago.”

  “Damn.”

  “It’s nothing big. That’s what happens when you get old,” he says. With a mighty grunt, he sits down in his chair behind the desk. “But you didn’t just come to ask about my knee now, did you?”

  “No,” I say, looking at one of the chairs in front of the desk. “May I?”

  “Oh, yes. Be my guest.”

  I tell him everything starting with Elena’s phone call while I was in Montreal. I tell him about the riot, the Agent of Justice sent to my apartment, Valerie Darling, and the Change Machine. The only thing I don’t tell him is of the fate that befell his protégé.

  “I knew about the Change Machine,” Richardson says. “That they had perfected it, I mean. It sent shock waves through the A of I.” He goes on to tell me that despite his forced retirement, he maintains steady contact with those still within the Agency of Influence. That could prove bad.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Fire away,” he says with a smile on his face.

  I take a deep breath. “Well … I, uh, was wondering if you could tell me the location of the Arrowhead.”

  “What?” he says, his smile quickly turning sour.

  “The Arrowhead of the Seminole,” I say, feigning a sudden sense of confidence. “Where can I find it?”

  “You’ve got some balls,” he says. He looks me in the eye before turning his attention out to the front yard. “I can’t tell you that, Cal.”

  “Why?”

  “I just can’t,” he says, lowering his head. “There’s just too much at stake.”

  I snicker and shake my head. “You’re damn right there’s a lot at stake. What’s the problem? Afraid you might lose your pension?”

  “Hey,” he says, pointing a finger, “I’ve been saving money since before you were conceived. I don’t need their money.”

  “But they do.”

  “It ain’t all about money, Cal. I know what you plan to do with the Arrowhead. It’s not worth it.”

  “Not worth it? For who? The agencies?”

  Richardson shakes his head. “No. For the person who destroys the Arrowhead. Look, it’s a great idea and I’d admire your gumption, but you have no idea what kind of shitstorm you’d be bringing on yourself.”

  “That’s nothing new for me.”

  Richardson’s face is reddening. “This is different.”

  “How so?”

  “Think, Calvin. All the money and power these guys have, if you destroy that Arrowhead—”

  “I’ve had people pissed at me before.”

  He slams a fist down on the desk. “Dammit, Calvin, listen to me.” The old man stares me in the eye. “There’s something you need to know.”

  I nod my head, urging him to continue.

  “I shouldn’t even be telling you this but …”

  “What? What is it?” I say, sitting up in my seat.

  “Remember what I told you about the Arrowhead?”

  “That it’d be catastrophic if it broke? Yeah, I know. Jimenez explained it to me.”

  “Well, no. You asked me if anyone broke it. I said no.”

  I can’t suppress a grin. “Son of a bitch.” He lied to me.

  “Daphne Tierney did it in 1887.”

  “Was she an A of I?”

  “A of J, actually. Mean little spitfire, too. Cussed and chewed tobacco.”

  “Why’d she do it?”

  “She was already disenchanted with the agency; she didn’t like eliminating outlaws. In fact, she saw herself as an outlaw. But the last straw was when they eliminated her father.”

  “Let me guess, an outlaw?”

  “Yup. She stole the Arrowhead, broke it, and ran and hid. Took the agencies four years to find her. She came up with lots of detailed disguises and stunts to get away whenever the agencies were close. They called her Disappearing Daphne.”

  “Clev
er.”

  “They chased her clear across America, even obtained the help of local sheriffs and bounty hunters to track her down. When they finally got her, they tortured that girl until the cows came home.”

  “Why?”

  “As the relic’s last carrier, she was the only one that could build them a new, functioning Arrowhead. But she wouldn’t. She spent eight months in captivity—no food, barely any water—until she finally gave in.”

  “She held out for a while.”

  “Yeah, she had a little fight in her. Guess you could say it was in her genes. Got it from her daddy.”

  “Really? Is he well-known?”

  “She never met him until right before he died. Daphne Tierney was her adopted name. Her birth name was Daphne Holliday.”

  “Holliday … as in Doc?”

  “Yup. She was a love child. She was seventeen when he died. He was thirty-six.”

  “Wow, the A of J started them young back then,” I say. “After she made the Arrowhead, did they let her go?”

  “No,” the old man says quietly. “They took a shotgun to her head. Point blank. That’s what’s in store for you, Calvin. They’ll stop at nothing to get what they want and they’ll punish you after they get it.”

  I swallow hard. “I still need to know where it is.”

  He chuckles. “Cal, I’m not going to tell you. For your own good.”

  “You’re just as guilty as they are, then.”

  “Don’t guilt trip me,” he says. He tries to stand but his knee buckles. “I’m doing you a favor.”

  “It’s not about me.”

  “It will be if you destroy the Arrowhead. Look what happened to Disappearing Daphne. What do you think the agencies did all that time without their powers? Their focus will be on you.”

  I exhale loudly and look at the bookcase behind Richardson. On the top row sits a blue binder labeled DIRECTOR’S MANUAL. Before drawing too much attention to my gaze, I look back down at Richardson and decide to give it one last shot. “Donald, I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you this, but they killed Nick in Miami.”

  The old man’s eyes fill with sadness, his face locks into a state of shock.

  “And there’ll be countless others unless you tell me where the Arrowhead is.” I look Richardson in his moistening eyes and wait what feels like an eternity.

  “Leave. Now.”

  I stand up and walk out of the office before passing Mrs. Richardson in the hallway. She carries a cup of tea.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check on that tea,” I tell her. I open the front door and slam it behind me as I step back out into the warm Philadelphia evening.

  Damn you, Richardson.

  Being singled out is nothing new for me. That’s been the story of my life since I was in sixth grade. If what Richardson says is true, I’m going to be on the run regardless. And wouldn’t it make more sense to be on the run after ensuring the long-term security of our society?

  I climb into my rental and slam its door shut. There must be a way to get the information I need. Richardson clearly knows where the Arrowhead is; he hasn’t denied it. Perhaps an associate or a fellow director knows. Or maybe it’s in his director’s manual. At the very least, it might lead me in the right direction. Despite what the old man might say, it’s worth finding out.

  I look back at the colonial. Richardson’s mug stares out at me through his office window. I turn the ignition and pull out into the street.

  I have to get that manual, but how? I could knock on his door and pretend to be a repairman. No, Richardson’s not senile enough to fall for that. If I’m going to get my hands on the manual, I’ll have to do it without him seeing me.

  After driving down a block, well out of Richardson’s view, I park the car.

  Swoosh!

  I change into the ten-year old version of myself, glasses, Star Wars t-shirt, and all. I wasn’t a very strong kid, but that’s okay. In this instance, it’s more important to be quick and small. I’ll need to squeeze in and out of the old man’s window. My size, or lack thereof, will make it easier to hide, if necessary.

  I make sure the coast is clear before leaving the car—no need to draw attention to the little kid hopping out of the driver’s seat. I close the door behind me and start the short walk to the Richardson house. When I come to the property line, I plod up the inclined front lawn, making sure to stay low. The light in the office has been turned off. I assume the old man has returned to his normal activities.

  Once again, I make sure no one’s watching before leaning on the brick wall next to the window. With the front of the house exposed to the street, I peek around the window frame to get a good look into the office. No lights, no Richardson.

  My legs suddenly turn to Jell-O. I sit down in the mulch surrounding the house when I hear a police siren from around the corner. The cruiser—with its red, white, and blue lights flashing above it—flies down the street, passing the Richardson house.

  Thank God.

  When my heartbeat finally subsides, I take one more peek into the office.

  Nothing.

  With a couple waves of my hand, I disengage the two locks on the old, drafty window. Next, I open it with a subtle raise of my arm. I then settle onto the balls of my feet as I prepare to jump through the opening. But when the light comes on in the office, I abort my jump, letting myself fall back down into the mulch.

  “What the?” I hear the old man say. He shimmies the window shut and locks it.

  I watch another car pass the house before peeking into the office again. His back to the window, Richardson pulls a book off of one of his shelves, takes it to the other end of the room and plops down on a couch.

  Damn it.

  Pondering my next move, I sit in the mulch and look over at the front entry, its door set about five feet back from the rest of the home’s façade. I take a deep breath and, with a point of my finger, ring the doorbell.

  “Lottie,” I hear the old man yell. “Can you get that?”

  I ring the bell once more before I see a glimmer of light spawn in the entry.

  “There’s no one here,” I hear Charlotte say.

  I ring the bell three more times.

  “Donald, I think there’s something wrong with the doorbell.”

  I hear the old man grunt and I peer into the office. He’s off the couch and limping out of the office. I ring the bell once more before unlocking the window again and sliding it up the frame.

  “I think we need to call the repairman,” I hear Mrs. Richardson say. The old man grunts again.

  I slowly stand up and focus on the bookshelf behind the old man’s desk.

  “No need to do that,” the old man says. “I can fix it.”

  “You?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I fix it?”

  “Remember what happened when you tried replacing the garbage disposal?”

  I lean into the window, reaching for the manual with my right hand.

  “See, now it’s stopped,” Charlotte says.

  The old man grunts again, swearing this time.

  With a flex of my outstretched forearm, the manual slides out of the bookshelf and floats across the room and into my hand. I pull myself out of the window and put the binder under my shirt before jumping at the sound of Richardson’s voice behind me.

  “What are you doing on my lawn?” I hear him say. He’s still near the front door, a good fifteen yards behind me.

  I make a run for it, through the yard toward the sidewalk, convinced that the old man and his balky knee won’t catch me.

  “Come back here,” the old man says. “Come back here, you little—”

  When I reach the sidewalk, I feel myself fall forward. I land on the concrete but the binder breaks my fall. I roll onto my side and see the old man limping down his yard.

  “Come here, you little bastard.”

  With a subtle wave of my hand, I knock Richardson’s cane out of his hand, forcing him to the
ground like a sack of potatoes. When I stand up and look back once more, the old man is on his back, grabbing at his knee, writhing, and groaning in pain.

  Shit. I injured the old codger.

  Mrs. Richardson comes to her husband’s aid as I turn my back to them and start running for it again. My cruel maneuver probably cost me any cover I had. When he sees that his window’s been opened and his manual’s been pulled off the shelf, he’ll put two and two together and realize that it was me. That’s fine, though. Provided the manual contains any helpful information, I’ll be well on my way to finding the Arrowhead.