As if the manager had hit the ejection button, Porter flew out of his seat and through the door, chasing after the gentleman.
In the shadows, he saw the man’s pristine stride. No swing, one hand in his pocket, the other on the briefcase.
“You know me,” Porter said, walking up behind the man, “Don’t you.” He kept a good fifteen feet between them, realizing he may have just been lured into the open for a reason. His eyes scanned the dark street, the ebony windows of the shops across the wet road, the other pedestrians strolling in the cool drizzle.
The old man stopped. He turned. He stared through the blackness filling his eye sockets. But he said nothing.
“What do you want with me!” said Porter.
The old man considered the words. “You’re contacting the FBI. Don’t meet with them.”
“Why not,” Porter said, feeling the icy moisture from above slowly seep through his cotton shirt.
“I realize there is no way you can understand, Mr. Porter. You’ll have to believe me.”
“Got a reason?” said Porter, his heart running mad in his chest.
“You trusted your mother didn’t you? When you were a child and she told you not to touch the frying pan on the hot stove? You’d burned yourself on things already; children do. You took her word for it and saved your fingers.”
“That happens to every kid.”
“But this doesn’t.”
“We going to talk about your father again, or was that just a fabrication.” Porter was serious.
“You’ve fallen into a rat race,” said the old man who seemed to smile in the shadow. “There is only one…way…out.”
“Your way.” Porter’s lungs pumped as if he were being chased again.
“The eccentric school boy in you has been able to say and do many things the world didn’t appreciate because there are ethical boundaries to which all scholars must submit. You’ve gained a name for yourself among those in your field, and that’s admirable. Gain a reputation with those in my business…and you’re dead.”
“How do you know about me?”
“Oh, Mr. Porter! I know more than you think! You were born in American Fork, Utah in 1963, and you are a Mormon. Oldest of seven children, you hated your father until he died while you served your church in Japan. Your sole motivation has been to prove your father wrong…because he always shot down your aspirations.”
Porter swallowed hard.
“Your mother…is still alive, as are your siblings, who are all married. You know you’ve been a poor example to them, which is why you rarely if ever contact them. You are six-one, one hundred and sixty-eight pounds, and have a stork-bite on the back of your neck that never went away. I’ve studied your profile for some time. I even know your real middle name, Mr. Porter, that which you so carefully hide from everyone you meet. I already said you’re in a rat race. That makes you the small animal everyone’s watching. You’re in trouble, and I’ve no more time to waste with you. Don’t meet with the FBI.”
“That’s like telling a bank teller not to call the cops when you’re robbing him.”
“Do it, Mr. Porter…and you will see blood spill.”
“I’ll follow the path I think is best.”
“Exactly what they expect, Mr. Porter. And that is how the race will end. You’ll fail any chance to graduate from Stratford, the opportunity to prove your church true will slip away, you’ll lose the codex you still have hidden, and your friends will die. No need to panic about them of course, because you will meet them in Paradise yourself!”
The old man nodded once, turned, and walked away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
April 28
4:31 p.m.
“Bernard Heidenstam, you old traitor, I see you’ve finally made captain!”
Bruno turned around and faced the infidel leaning against the bar. He wiped a wet hand on the front of his Corona Beer T-shirt and squinted his eyes at the old man in the dark suit of gray tweed. “Benjamin Andrews? So you didn’t die after all!”
“I’ve been dead since the war, Bruno. A vampire bit me behind enemy lines. I’ve been walking the dark for almost fifty years.”
“Decided to see the light,” Bruno smiled. He slapped the old man in the arm. “It is good to see you,” he said with fake emphasis. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“You owe me at least that, traitor.”
“You still harping on my name, Andrews?” said Bruno, pouring the most toxic liquid he could find. He’d kill this vampire, if he could. A band of seven math students pushed by Andrews on their way out, jabbering loudly as if no other humans existed on the planet around them.
“You’re a German, Heidenstam,” said the man, taking the fat glass when it came. “You always were a spy, and we all knew it. It’s the only reason you boxed so well.”
“Well, I can still take you out any time you’re ready, Andrews! Don’t call me by my real name. I’ve got a reputation here I don’t want changed.”
“Ah!” the old man in the suit said, leaning on the bar. “That’s how you keep your new company in order here! Terror techniques.” He took a swig and grimaced. “What is this stuff?!”
Bruno grinned and said in his best growl. “You don’t wanna know, Andrews!” He wiped down the bar, smelling the sour odor of the wet rag in his hands. “We missed you at the reunions, old man.”
“I missed the invitations.” He braced himself with one hand on the counter and took another swallow.
Watching him from the corner of his eye, as two girls entered the cafe laughing, Bruno said, “coming up again in November. Driskel’s putting it on, I think. Means it’s in Nebraska this year, if you’re up to it.”
“Well I am a busy fellow,” said Andrews, slapping the glass down as if he were twenty-one and proud of it.
“At your age? Doing what!”
“Look who’s flapping his naked gums!” said Andrews waving a finger. “Oh, you remember those days? Soaring over India in the dark? Not a sound! Even the wind, hushing for us!”
“I remember praying we wouldn’t be noticed,” Bruno turned his eyes up to the dead fan hanging above his old…acquaintance.
“Silent birds diving through enemy skies. 900th Airborne Engineers. Bernard, I knew the wheels on those gliders were useless. Without the skids, we’d all be buried behind enemy lines.”
“You knew nothing,” Bruno said with a huff and a chuckle. “You’d never touched down in soaked rice patties ‘fore. You were ignorant as the rest of us!”
“They told us to land there!” said Andrews. “Besides, you couldn’t land a glider if the ground was smooth and a hundred beautiful women waited for you.”
“There weren’t no woman,” said Bruno.
“There were in our company.”
“ They weren’t women.”
“Jen sure looked like one,” said Andrews, tapping his glass.
“Jen’s danced through three husbands since the last World War. And I never needed to pilot those gliders. I was only along for the ride.” Bruno poured the toxin.
“We got those runways built in no time.”
“We did our job. Then I beat you into a ball,” Bruno said with grit in his voice.
“I’ve…given up boxing,” said Andrews, drinking.
“For what,” said Bruno, turning his back to the man in order to look casual.
Andrews pinched down the alcohol. “FBI, my good man. That’s why I’m here.”
“Isn’t there a law against working for a government agency when you’re passed eighty? There should be! The world’s going senile, and if you’re running things, it’s no wonder why!” Bruno grabbed a dry cloth from under the bar and wiped his hands.
“I’ve retired,” said Andrews with a grin. His eyes were tight, dry, and as serious as they had been in India. “But I still work…as a Special Informant.”
“Counter intelligence? You’re spying on Americans for America, eh? Back-stabbing your brother and that stuff? You gone communist on us, Andrews? That why we haven’t heard from you in so long?” Bruno said with a laugh, but the questions had meaning, expecting straight answers. Andrews had carried a dark soul inside his living corpse during the war. No one at the reunions debated how much blacker he’d become since then.