Words of Danny O'Bigbelly My idea of a good time

I recently joined yet another social networking site. It’s a small site that was formed last year as a home for expatriates from another site, now defunct, and a few other sources. I hesitated to join, because I am a little uncomfortable with the by-laws of the site, which are whatever the founder/sponsor/editor of the site thinks they ought to be. There’s no need to dwell on the details, except to say that I feel more at home on sites that are more aligned with the premise that I can do pretty much whatever I want. When a site has, as this one does, a zero-tolerance policy about violations of rules defined in overtly subjective terms, then it’s inevitable that I’ll be given the pumpkin eventually. The challenge is to see how long I can behave myself first.

As is customary on such sites, I posted a self-introduction soon after joining. These self-introductions are usually extremely formulaic:

My name is so-and-so.
I live in this place.
I work at this kind of job, or used to work and am retired or am between jobs.
I have the following religious/political/etc beliefs.
I will/will not tolerate the following deviations from my beliefs.
I am interested/uninterested in meeting partners for romance/sex/hook-ups/bridge.
The following quote summarizes my philosophy.

After this there is rambling discussion of other salient life experiences and whatnot. This is where you mention that you’re a vegetarian, or an ex-marine, or believe in fairies, or have a blog, or any sort of uncategorizable whatnot or fringe beliefs that might set you apart from the rest of the herd.

Anyway, I hate things that are formulaic, so I decided that mine would be a little different. But not different enough so as to be completely foreign, of course.

I’ve been around these sites to know what the usual subtexts are, and a few other useful tidbits. These are reflected in my introduction, albeit obliquely.

Another thing that I’ve learned on these sites is to save everything you’ve written that you might want to reference in the future, because sometimes things happen to things you post on the web. There might be a glitch, or the site founder/sponsor/administrator might expunge your post because it’s off-topic or posted in the wrong manner, or you might be on open.salon.com, where deleting other people’s posts is considered fair and civil.

Anyway, I kept a draft. I hope you’ll like it, because it’s all you’re getting today. The next chapter of AQoLC is a mess, and I’m feeling too charitable to release it yet. Maybe tomorrow, more likely Sunday.

Please allow me to introduce myself

Some odds and ends that you might find interesting or useful to know prior to any future interactions we might have (after all, forewarned is forearmed, as my eighth-grade history teacher, Mrs. Bush–no relation to any recent presidents–used to say):

• I’m happily married, and plan to stay that way, so please keep in mind that when I flirt with you I am not really interested in having sex with you, unless you are a perfect match for me in every possible way and can absolutely prove to me that my wife (who is somewhat computer savvy and shares a computer with me) will never find out, ever. Also it would be best if I never found out either, because I’m the sort of person who would feel very guilty and eventually break down and confess the whole thing to my mistress, who is a bit melodramatic and fickle, and would be so pissed off that she’d be certain to tell my wife, and then the shit would really hit the fan when she told my parents, and I’m just not into that much drama. My eighth-grade history teacher, Mrs. Bush, used to call this a “no-win clusterfuck”, which, if I understood her meaning correctly, is the bad, undesirable sort of clusterfuck.
• I enjoy writing short fiction, such as most of the previous paragraph.
• I’ve been told that I have the mind of a philosopher, the thoughts of a poet, the wisdom of a plagiarist, and the heart of an angel, although probably an angel who spent too much time at the pasta bar and not enough time doing cardio at the gym–but not by anyone whose opinion matters. My eighth-grade history teacher, Mrs. Bush, used to call this “fainting with damned praise,” or something like that.
• I have several advanced degrees in computer science and related fields, including at least one from a university that doesn’t advertise in the back pages of People Magazine, and so I know how computers are supposed to work and how they can work, which means that when I try to use applications like Microsoft Excel, two things usually happen: first, the computer gets so wrapped around its axle that any attempt to fix things or even remember exactly what I’ve done is a complete waste of time and it is usually best for all concerned to curtail the attempt and simply encase the hard drive in a concrete-lined lead sarcophagus and dump it into the Marianas Trench, where it will pose no further threat to mankind, and second, I need to go away and spend some time in my happy place with a bottle of scotch, a bowl of Cheetohs, and a copy of Caddyshack. This is what Mrs. Bush, my eighth-grade history teacher, used to call a “coping strategy.”
• I have sort of a thing for Guo Jingjing. If you don’t know who she is, that’s OK. All you need to know is that whenever I mention her, if you roll your eyes, my attention, which has been graced with a gnat-like attention span, will soon fixate on some other topic. If you’ve been on these social web sites for a while, the process of rolling your eyes and counting to ten will, I expect, be old hat to you. If not, you might want to practice it a few times. It’s one of the sort of things that my eighth-grade history teacher, Mrs. Bush–who must have been mercilessly teased for her name at various points in her life–would call a “valuable life skill.”
• I am a very private person, who communicates with the outside world only in short, carefully constructed sentence fragments. If at all.

It’s great to be here.

Saturday, 3:45pm

Brad approach the causeway from the east and saw other cars already crossing. The water didn’t look deep, so Brad decided not to wait.

A few moments later, he arrived at the cabin. Sally’s jeep was in the driveway, but Victor’s car was missing.

“Hello?” he called into the house, but there was no answer. Brad was not surprised or concerned; it was a beautiful day, and the beach was only a short walk away. He would have been more surprised to have found them all inside on such a beautiful day. Perhaps Sally and Judy were at the beach, or perhaps everyone had gone for a drive in Victor’s car.

He thumbed open his cell phone and called Sally’s phone, and immediately heard her phone ringing in the dining room. He walked to the dining room, and saw the remains of a nearly-complete game of Scrabble on the table, and one of Judy’s sandals.

Sally wasn’t here, and she didn’t have her phone. This was mildly inconvenient, because it meant that they had no way to contact each other. Without concrete plans for dinner, Brad guessed that his safest strategy would be to wait at the cabin until they returned or called. Even if he couldn’t call them, they could call him; Victor or Magda probably have their phones, and Sally could use one of their phones to call him.

Brad made a mental note to get Victor and Magda’s phone numbers and program them into his own phone when they returned. In the meanwhile, he could do what he had come home to do: shower off the salt and sand, change into dry clothes, grab a beer, and sit on the deck, watching the light breeze make the scrub pines sway slightly. If he got bored, he could poke around the kitchen, learning where key tools and provisions were kept; every year they rented this house the equipment in the kitchen changed somewhat, and often there were drastic changes in where things were located. After a frustrating evening two years ago, when he had lost most of the hair on his right hand and forearm flipping burgers for ten minutes with a pie cutter while Sally searched the kitchen for anything more closely resembling a metal spatula, eventually finding them under the sink behind the recycling, Brad always remembered that pre-meal reconnaissance is essential to happy and harmonious summer rentals.

As Brad contemplated his pleasant plans for the afternoon, he heard the screen door to the kitchen bang closed behind him. He turned and saw Magda standing in the doorway, taking off her sandy flaps.

“Mister Brinta, can you do me a favor?” Magda asked.

“What is, it Magda?”

“My father left his car down by the causeway. He’s worried that the tide will come in farther and the car will sink into the marsh, or something. He called a few minutes ago and asked me to ask you to drive it back up to the house, if you came back.”

“Where are they?”

“Your wife and daughter went with my father down to the causeway, and then they went for a walk to the bird sanctuary. When the tide came up, it came up to the sea wall, and they couldn’t come back the way they’d came, and so they decided to follow the beach around to the next access path.”

“They’re going to be gone for a while, then. It’s a long walk, around most of the island. But I’m sure they’ll have the sense to cut across someone’s land, if they get caught by the tide–although by this point, the tide has been going out for two hours, so they really shouldn’t have any problems. His car will probably be fine.”

“Still, could you help me get it?”

“It’s a long walk. Give me a moment to change. I got soaked sailing, and it’s not comfortable walking like this.”

“OK.”

Magda toed her flaps back on, and returned to the back deck while Brad quickly changed. When he stepped back out onto the porch, Magda was waiting.

“You know,” she said, “I had an idea. We could drive down to the causeway, and then you could drive my father’s car back, and I could drive yours. I know how to drive.”

“Then why don’t you drive your father’s car?”

Magda smiled mischievously. “My father has told me that I shouldn’t drive his car when he’s not around–but he never told me that I shouldn’t drive your car.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what he meant, however.”

Magda frowned. “OK. Well, let’s take the bikes then. We can put them in the trunk and drive back.”

“I can do it by myself, if you give me the keys,” Brad answered.

“Victor left the keys in the car. He does that, you know. But I want to go. I’m bored. I’ve been stuck here all afternoon with nothing to do,” Magda responded, with a teenage-pout tone.

“Well, OK,” Brad acquiesced, unconvinced that this would alleviate her boredom.

There were two fat-tired, single-speed bikes in the garage. Ordinarily Brad would have refused to ride without a helmet, but his ordinary concerns were attenuated by the thought that the road was mostly sand and gravel, and there was very little traffic.

The bike was uncomfortable, but Brad enjoyed riding through the scrub pine forest. He wondered if he would have a chance to go for a ride with Sally later–she’d probably enjoy it also. Victor and Magda could watch Judy, perhaps, and he could have some time alone with Sally, something that had been too rare recently.

They coasted down the slope from the crest of the dune above the causeway, and Brad saw Victor’s car parked off the road, to the right, along the lane that lead the Audubon Bird Sanctuary. Brad realized why he hadn’t noticed it as had driven past it a few moments ago–it was a relatively low car, and had been hidden by a tall stand of cat-tails.

Brad also noticed that there was a police car parked next to Victor’s car, and a police officer was standing in front of the car, making notes on a pad.

Brad dismounted and walked his bike over to Victor’s car, while Magda hung back. She appeared concerned.

“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked.

“Is this your car?” the policeman responded.

“No, but it belongs to a friend of mine. Is there a problem? Is it illegal to park here?”

“No, it’s not illegal. A bad idea, maybe, if he leaves it here when the tide comes back in.”

“OK, no worries then. I’ll make sure it gets moved before then. I just got a little worried because it looked like you were writing up a ticket.”

“Just noting down the license plate. This car, or a car just like it–which I doubt, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car like this one–was videotaped driving recklessly earlier today.”

“Can you cite someone for that? I mean, from evidence on videotape? If you can’t see their license plate on the tape?” Magda asked.

“Why do you think we couldn’t make out the license plate in the video?” asked the officer.

“Just a guess,” Magda replied. “Because if you could, then you probably wouldn’t have just said that you weren’t sure that this the same car, and you probably wouldn’t be writing down the license plate number if you already had it.”

“Besides, there are lots of cars that look like this,” Brad commented, disingenuously. “It was probably someone else. And my friend isn’t the kind of person who would drive recklessly–I’ve never seen him do anything reckless,” he added, truthfully.

The officer frowned. “Look, there was a strange incident here earlier. If your friend parked his car here this afternoon, then maybe he saw something. I’d really like to talk to him or her about it. Your friend didn’t do anything wrong, but if we was here an hour ago, I’d really like to talk to him.

The officer handed Brad his card.

“I’ll be sure to tell him, Officer Doherty,” Brad answered.

Brad and Magda watched as Doherty climbed into his car and slowly drove away across the causeway, toward Route 6.

“I have sort of a random question for you,” said Magda. “How long do you think it would take to drive from here to New York?”

“New York City? About five hours, maybe six, depending on traffic, and how you drive. Maybe longer. I’ve never done it, but we could ask around. A lot of people come up from New York to the Cape. Why?”

“I have a friend who is thinking of coming up for a day, but she didn’t know how long it would take.”

Brad waited until the police car was out of sight before approaching Victor’s car.

“It’s open,” Magda told him. “He always leaves it open.”

Magda opened the trunk and Brad put his bike in. The trunk was surprisingly large, and he guessed that Magda’s bike would also fit.

“Do you want to ride back on your bike, or would you rather ride in the car?”

“The car is fine. Besides, I have to show you how things work in the car. It’s a little weird,” Magda answered, piling her bike on top of his and closing the trunk.

Brad climbed into the drivers side, and shut the door. Magda opened the passenger side door a moment later, and slid in. Brad looked at the controls. They all looked familiar.

“Where are the keys?” Brad asked.

“There aren’t any,” Magda said, with a slight taunt in her voice.

“Then how do I start the engine? Is there a button to push, or something?”

“You don’t start the engine–I do. And there isn’t a button.”

Brad realized that the engine had already started. It was nearly inaudible and the car barely vibrated. Brad was impressed by the engineering finesse this represented. His curiosity about Victor’s car was growing.

“Neat. But seriously–how did you start the car?” Brad asked, scanning the dashboard for anything that looked like a starter.

“Mister Brinta, I’m really sorry about this…” began Magda and with a sudden movement that startled Brad, she reached out with her left hand and placed it on top of Brad’s right hand on the steering wheel.

Brad’s arm prickled numbly like it was asleep. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but when it tried to move away, he found that he was completely paralyzed.

“I didn’t know exactly what to do,” continue Magda. “My father… Let me try again. I’ve been dishonest with you, but I promise that I won’t do that again. There was an accident in the cabin, and Judy was hurt. She needed to go to the hospital right away. We took her. She needed to see a very special doctor, and so she needed to go to a hospital in New York. She’s there now. They’re taking good care of her, and your wife is there too, and she’s fine. My father sent me back here to tell you what happened, and to bring you to the hospital so you could be with them. I would have taken you sooner, but things got complicated, with the police and the air force and the FBI, and some other things, and I didn’t know what to do. I’m going to take you there, but I’m afraid that if you show up in New York less than five hours after that policeman recorded you here with his dash-cam, there will just be more questions. I think my father is already in trouble, and I don’t want any more questions. I know that you’re anxious to see your wife and daughter, but I need you to wait, but I don’t want you to freak out worrying for five hours, and I have some other things to do, so I’m going to have to ask you to fall asleep for a moment. I’ll tell you more later, while you’re asleep.”

I’m asleep, Brad thought. I’ve fallen asleep lying on top of my arm, I’m having a very strange dream, and it’s time to wake up.

The honk of a car horn awoke Brad abruptly. He was at the wheel of his car, parked on the roof of some sort of parking structure. The sky was dark. He checked his watch, and saw that it was 9:00pm. In front of him, he could see the skyline of a great city silhouetted against the last light of a purple sunset. After a moment of utter disorientation, he remembered everything that Magda had told him, and knew exactly where he was.

Judy had come out of surgery two hours ago. The surgeon thought that the danger was past. Sally was in a waiting room, reading a magazine. To get to where she was, the quickest route would be to walk down the aisle of cars to an elevator, take the elevator to the second level, walk across a footbridge, then down a set of stairs, through the entrance to the hospital, past the gift shop and a coffee shop, take one of the elevators to the fifth floor, turn right, go through a pair of double doors, down a long hall, then turn left, and then right again.

Brad got out of the car and started walking.

Saturday, 6:27pm

Knox watched Victor on one of the monitors in the observation room. The room had eight closed-circuit television cameras; one wide-angle camera at ceiling height at each of the four corners, two ordinary cameras six feet off of the floor on the wall opposite the seat occupied by Victor, arranged in such a way to provide full coverage of someone being questioned without being obscured by the head of the questioner, and two wide-angle cameras installed in the floor beneath the table in order to observe any action that the subject might attempt to conceal under the table.

None of these cameras were visible; they had been installed in such a way that made them extremely difficult to detect, even by someone who knew exactly where they were.

There were also two visible cameras, with very visible lights that indicated whether the cameras in the room were recording, but they were not attached to anything. They were simply let the subject know that he or she was being observed and possibly taped, but beyond that, they were expendable props. Violent subjects, if given the opportunity, often tried to break them, and so their purpose was best served by being cheap, rugged, and unnecessary.

Knox suspected that there were additional cameras that he didn’t know about, that were used to oversee interrogations and confirm that the rights of the prisoners were preserved. Knox wasn’t sure whether these cameras existed, or where they were, but he liked to think that they existed and that someone was watching, both for the sake of the subject and his own.

Knox watched Victor for a long minute. Victor was seated at the table, his arms folded on the table, pillowing his head. A faint and intermittent snoring could be heard through the monitor.

“Do you think he’s really asleep?” Knox asked the attendant on duty, whose job it was to closely watch over Victor.

“Don’t know. If so, it’s the first time I’ve seen anyone fall asleep in the room. Pass out, yes, I’ve seen that. But this is the first time I’ve seen someone take a nap.”

“How long has he been like that?”

“About five minutes. When he was brought in about fifteen minutes ago, he sat at the table. He didn’t pace. He looked all around the room, very slowly. Carefully. Methodical is the word. Then he whistled to himself for a few minutes, and then took a nap.”

“Nerves of steel?” Knox conjectured.

“No. No nerves at all. None of the usual stress body language. Just napping.”

“Well, he’s a strange one.”

“What’s he here for?”

Knox thought for a moment before answering.

“He flew a helicopter into restricted airspace, and he flew very recklessly. He doesn’t have a pilot’s license, at least none that’s valid here. And the helicopter was painted to look like a Coast Guard helicopter, which is illegal, although I don’t know whether he had anything to do with that, or whether it’s helicopter or whether he happened to ‘borrow’ a helicopter with that paint job. There’s also some other strange stuff, too.”

“Just took a helicopter out for a joy-ride, then?”

“No, not exactly. He was bringing a kid and her mother to Bellevue. The kid was hurt and needed to get to an emergency room right away.”

“Seems like overkill to hold him, then? I mean, if it was a mission of mercy?”

“There’s something more to it. A few really odd details. I don’t know if we’re going to charge him with anything serious, but I don’t want to let him just walk away without giving us some answers.”

“Odd details? C’mon. Like what?”

Knox decided to omit several of the details, because he hadn’t convinced himself that they were true. He decided to focus on the helicopter.

“OK, here are some odd details. First, the helicopter is strange. We don’t know what kind of helicopter it is. It is similar to a Coast Guard Dolphin, but the resemblance is mostly superficial. The dimensions are different, and a bunch of other things are different. We’ve got databases of this stuff, every model of helicopter that’s come off an assembly line for the past fifty years. Either this helicopter was intentionally modified–which raises the question of why someone would do that–or else this is a one-off that someone built on their own. It doesn’t make much sense; if someone wanted this helicopter to look more like a Dolphin, then they could have made it look more like a Dolphin. That wouldn’t have been hard.”

“Second, the controls on the helicopter were very odd. I don’t know that much about helicopters, but this is what I’ve been told. Nearly all modern helicopters have the same control layout, just like modern cars, which is why a driver who knows how to drive a Yugo can hop into a Porsche and drive it immediately without learning a new set of basic controls. This helicopter is totally different, and the controls don’t make much sense to any of the pilots we’ve asked.”

“Finally, the mystery of the strange controls might have something to do with this. I think that maybe this guy didn’t actually fly the helicopter at all, because thirty minutes after he landed, and after we’d brought him in for questioning, the helicopter took off and flew away. By itself. We know that there wasn’t anyone in it.”

“OK, that’s weird. But can’t you just track it and find out where it went?”

“One more thing, and this one’s the icing on the cake. We can’t track it. It has the radar cross-section of a frisbee, and we lost it when we lost visual. We called in other assets–some jets out of McGuire–but by the time they got here, it was gone. It went down the harbor, through the Narrows, and then it was gone.”

Knox paused for another moment. “We’ve got a custom-made, unidentifiable, remote-controlled stealth helicopter flying around somewhere masquerading as a Coast Guard patrol helicopter. And lots of questions that sleepy-head in there might be able to answer.”

“OK, I can see why he’s not going to be leaving any time soon.”

Victor rubbed the back of his head and then exhaled, puffing out his cheeks.

“You know, it’s a little funny,” remarked the attendant. “Usually it’s the subject that’s nervous, not us. But this guy doesn’t seem to have a care in the world, and we’re the ones who are acting worried.”

“Yes, I know. And that’s something that makes me even more worried.”

Knox turned, exited the attendants booth and walked down the short hall to the entrance to the interrogation room, and entered. As he crossed the room and sat down in his chair, Victor stirred, stretched, yawned, and then seemed fully alert. Victor sat up, with his hands in his lap.

“I apologize for falling asleep,” Victor began, “But this room provides little in the way of stimulation or amusement, and I have had an exhausting day.”

“I am Special Agent Artemus Knox, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in case you have forgotten.”

“Yes, I remember from our earlier meeting.”

“As you expected earlier, I have many questions for you.”

“I understand completely. But first, Special Agent Artemus Knox, I hope that you will permit me to ask a small favor. Do you know whether Sally Brinta and her daughter Judy–the two ladies who accompanied me on the helicopter–reached the hospital? Will Judy be all right?”

“I know that they made it to the hospital, and that Judy received treatment. I apologize that I do not have more information at this time, but I find out what I can and let you know.”

“If I answer your questions.”

“No, Mr. Denebola, I will tell you what I can as soon as I can.”

“I shall be grateful.”

“Now, Mr. Denebola…”

“It is actually Doctor Denebola, or Professor Denebola, although if you prefer to address me without honorifics you may call be Victor, or Mister Denebola. Any of those is fine, although I thought I should mention my honorifics because it may help you in your and your colleague’s efforts to prepare my dossier.”

“Thank you, Professor Denebola. Now, I would like you to tell me, briefly….”

“I apologize for the interruption, Special Agent Artemus Knox, but before we begin, I wish to suggest that you move your chair over to the left by about ten inches. You are blocking one of the cameras.”

Saturday, 2:35pm

When Knox arrived at the 34th street heliport, there were already two squad cars and an ambulance waiting in the parking area. He had no idea who had summoned the police units, and was half-surprised to see the ambulance. Apparently someone did not believe that this was a hoax and was taking the phone call seriously.

“Wait here,” Knox told the driver, and emerged from the car. He waved to the policemen to follow him, flashed his badge at the guards at the entrance to the fenced-in landing area, and skirted the northern-most pad until he reached the fence that marked the eastern border of the heliport, overlooking the East River.

Knox had always questioned the sense of having a heliport that was nearly beneath the FDR. Early one autumn morning he had been driving along the FDR and had been astonished to see a helicopter hover next to the highway for a moment, and then slowly descend until it was entirely out of sight. As he stood here, on the side of the heliport that was farthest away from the highway, he could only conclude that it was insane. Three of the five pads were occupied, and the helicopters in those pads, which were not particularly large as far as Knox could tell, seemed to nearly fill the pads. It would take great skill–and an absence of unpredictable gusts of wind–to land safely in such a narrow space, with only yards separating the approach path from roaring traffic.

Knox considered his options. He still had no firm plan about what he was going to do if a helicopter appeared, but he felt that it was important nevertheless. His conversation with the Westbury TRACON had been unsettling–mid-way through explaining who he was and that he was interested in the presence of any emergency flights or other flights without filed flight plans through the controlled space between Islip and Manhattan, especially anything resembling a helicopter, the admin he was speaking with interrupted him to say that there was a high priority situation that all the controllers needed to attend to, and had abruptly hung up. Knox wondered whether his situation might be linked in some way to whatever crisis the Westbury aircraft controllers were suddenly facing.

Knox hoped that a Coast Guard helicopter would appear and land. It was the most benign outcome he could imagine; if the 9-1-1 call had been a practical joke, then he would probably be given the task of tracking down the prankster as a reward for overreacting, and if the 9-1-1 call had been a diversion from some sort of terrorist incident, he suspected that he would be blamed for not have acting more aggressively on his hunch.

The more Knox thought about what he planned to do, the more he realized that the reason he was at the heliport was because ever since he had heard the recording of the 9-1-1 call, he had had a profound desire, which competed with his job priorities, to do whatever he could to help the injured little girl mentioned in the call. If there was a helicopter coming that was filled with explosives, he had done nothing to impede it from approaching the city. If there was a terrorist attack coming, he was in the wrong place, doing the wrong things, making the wrong decisions.

He was only here to help the girl, and he didn’t understand why.

Knox’s phone rang, and he answered it reflexively. It was his office. All agents were immediately summoned to the office–something that hadn’t happened since 9/11. Knox acknowledged the message, but remained. He couldn’t bring himself to leave immediately.

Knox’s phone rang again before he had a chance to replace it in its holster. It was a response to a message he’d left earlier, and the caller wasted no time. There were no Coast Guard helicopters operating in the area, none had been involved in a rescue or medevac that day, and certainly none inbound to Manhattan, with or without injured passengers. All helicopters from Maine to Norfolk were accounted for; any helicopter he saw with Coast Guard colors flying over Manhattan would be an impostor. Knox thanked the caller and hung up.

Knox knew that all the evidence was that he was being a fool, but he couldn’t resist the urge to make one last scan of the horizon, looking for any aircraft coming toward the heliport.

As he looked to the northeast, he saw a helicopter approaching, fast and low. It seemed to take only seconds from the time that Knox could see it until he could see it clearly. It wasn’t one of the large Coast Guard helicopters; it looked like one of the mid-sized patrol craft. Knox could not make out any markings, because it was coming nearly straight for him, but the front appeared to be the same orange pattern as a standard Coast Guard aircraft.

There was no question that the helicopter was coming straight toward the heliport, but it was coming in much too quickly to land. For a moment Knox thought that perhaps the helicopter was planning to overfly the heliport and crash into the buildings on the far side of the FDR, but at the last minute the pilot made a maneuver that startled Knox both its consummate skill and apparent disregard of safety. The helicopter pivoted so that it was flying backwards, and then the pilot dipped the nose at full power, bringing the helicopter to a full stop in less length than Knox would have believed possible. The skids hit the pavement and didn’t slide an inch as the pilot leveled the helicopter and cut the power to the main rotor. The helicopter came to a complete stop in the exact middle of pad four, between two other helicopters and at the far end of the landing area.

Knox was amazed to the point of immobility when he realized that the pilot had flown the last seventy-five yards backwards, under full power, without being able to see where he or she was going, without any apparent correction, to land perfectly.

“Crazy motherfucker can fly that thing,” said the policeman standing next to Knox, perfectly expressing Knox’s impression and providing him with the words he would later use as his own to describe that aspect of the incident.

Knox approached the helicopter at a dead run, but by the time he had reached the pilot’s side, the pilot was already standing on the pavement. Next to him stood a woman who was carrying an unconscious girl wrapped in a blanket. The woman looked stunned and frightened, but hopeful. Knox thought that she looked as if she was glad to be back on the ground.

The pilot, a middle-aged man incongruously dressed in a long-sleeved canvas shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers without socks, addressed Knox immediately and with urgency.

“This girl needs medical attention. She must be taken to Bellevue hospital for immediate treatment.”

Knox motioned to the policemen. One of them took the girl from the woman and carried her quickly to the waiting ambulance. Knox watched as the EMTs loaded the girl and the woman into the ambulance, almost forgetting the pilot for a moment. His attention was drawn back to the helicopter when he heard the loud thump of the helicopters doors swinging closed. When he heard the doors close, Knox had expected that the pilot had locked himself in the helicopter and was about to try to fly away again, but he was surprised to find the pilot standing in front of him instead.

“I suppose you will introduce yourself in a moment, with your credentials,” said the pilot. “I will begin. My name is Victor Denebola, and I expect that you have many questions for me.”

Saturday, 2:42pm

Saleh bin Tariq bin Khalid Al-Fulan, known to his neighbors as Sal, carefully scanned the air above the tidal marsh south of the Lieutenants Island causeway, looking for anything unusual. He had been watching patiently for nearly ten minutes, but had seen nothing. His sons were busy in the garage, packing their equipment into his oversized SUV, but they were expecting Saleh to summon them at any moment.

Saleh sat on the deck behind his home, sweeping the horizon with his binoculars, lemonade at the ready. His camcorder lay waiting on the table. The red-winged blackbirds would come, if he was patient. He would be ready to film them when they did.

If Saleh had been looking in the wrong direction, he wouldn’t have seen the incoming strike eagle until it was past him. Although the F-15E had slowed considerably since crossing the lost island of Billingsgate, it was still covering more than a mile every four seconds, traveling at nearly twice the speed of sound. Between the moment Saleh noticed a disturbance in the haze over the harbor until the time he was able to identify the distinctive twin-tail design, the plane was almost upon him.

“Holy shit!” he muttered.

The plane was coming at less than 1000 feet, and was rolled on its side as it passed. The plane arrived before the sound, a tremendous explosive boom, and Saleh barely had time to cover his ears. He watched as the plane banked to the left, turning sharply north toward Indians Neck and the town pier. Saleh watched as the plane completed its turn, and knew that he wasn’t the only one watching. The entire population of the town was probably watching the skies.

“What the fuck was that?” asked Hassim, Saleh’s younger son, in a very unusual use of obscenity.

Saleh turned to answer, and therefore didn’t see the second eagle, which passed over his head just a few seconds later and then banked to the right in a long, sweeping curve encompassing South Wellfleet and much of Eastham.

When the thunderous sounds of its engines had diminished enough to make conversation possible, Saleh answered his son.

“Those are F-15’s, probably F-15E’s, from what I can see. Strike aircraft. What they’re doing here, I have no idea. But it must be something important. Something is happening. They would never fly so low, so fast over the Cape without good reason. They’re looking for something.”

The boys watched, interested. The two eagles rendezvoused over Great Island and climbed to a slightly higher altitude and began flying, at much slower speed, in patterns over the area. After a few moments, the boys lost interest and returned the garage.

After another minute, Saleh was certain that their patterns were centered on his home. He was not surprised several minutes later when a Wellfleet police car came racing down the road and made a quick stop in front of his house. The causeway was flooded, and Saleh was used to having company when the causeway was impassible.

Officer Dick Doherty, who knew most of the year-round residents in the area, emerged from his car, cradling his shotgun, and shouted up Saleh. “Hey, Sal–have you seen anything unusual today?”

Saleh was tempted to answer that he’d never seen anything more unusual around Wellfleet than Dick carrying his shotgun, but knew that it was not a time for joking. The sight of a Wellfleet police officer with an unholstered weapon, much less a 12-gauge full-choke shotgun, was chilling.

“You mean the planes?” Saleh asked.

“No, before the planes. Something around ten or fifteen minutes ago, maybe twenty. A bunch of people setting something up, and then leaving quickly. Maybe with a truck.”

“Nobody has come across the causeway for more than an hour. Flooded, you know.”

Doherty shook his head. “Anything unusual at all?”

“Does this have something to do with the planes?” Saleh asked.

Doherty puffed out his cheeks. “Look, there’s something serious happening, and it might have something to do with something here.”

Saleh had rarely heard such a vague statement of the obvious, but he let the point go.

“Does it have something to do with the helicopter?”

“What helicopter?”

“Come up. I’ll tell you about it.”

Doherty quickly walked up the short path through Saleh’s yard, and then up the stairs to the deck. Saleh noticed that he was still carrying the shotgun.

“I hope you have the safety on,” Saleh remarked. “Firearms make me uncomfortable.”

“It’s safe,” answered Doherty. “Now, tell me about the helicopter. When did you see it?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes ago. I can check the exact time, if you like,” Saleh began, gesturing to the notebook of observations he kept at hand. “I was watching the marsh, looking for a new pair of red-winged blackbirds, when I heard a helicopter come in from the north, following the beach of Indians Neck, and then over Loagy Bay. I heard it coming before I could see it.”

Saleh paused, gathering his thoughts.

“It got my attention because it was going very quickly–unusually quickly, and low.”

“What kind of helicopter was it?”

“It looked like a Coast Guard helicopter, painted orange and white, but larger. Bigger than an H-60, I mean. It looked more like an H-53–you know, maybe a Pave Low bird.”

Doherty shook his head. Saleh could tell that these designations had no meaning for him.

“An H-60 is the largest helicopter that the Coast Guard uses, around here. The largest one I know about, anyway. It’s a large helicopter by most standards, but it’s not as large as a Pave Low–which you might have heard of by its nickname, the “super jolly green giant”, and I don’t think it’s large enough to do what this helicopter did. I don’t know whether it was a Pave Low, because it had a different configuration than any Pave Low I’ve seen. But those details may not be important. What is important is that this very large helicopter came barreling over the bay, no more than twenty feet above the marsh, then turned and hovered for a second at the base of the causeway, facing directly east.”

Saleh paused again, gathering his thoughts.

“You know, until you showed up, I thought maybe somebody was making a movie or something. I thought maybe the helicopter and the planes were part of an action sequence or something. Because what happened next seems like something out of a movie–and not a very realistic movie.”

“Keep going. This sounds interesting,” urged Doherty.

“The helicopter hovered there for a second or two–and I really mean just a second or two–and then this big car came shooting through the gap in the trees at the top of the dunes, really moving. Recklessly fast. Even though the helicopter was right in the middle of the road, the car kept coming. At the same time, the helicopter dipped down so that it was almost on the road, and then I couldn’t see the car because it was behind the helicopter. Then the helicopter suddenly wheeled away, heading southwest at full power, and the car was gone.”

“What happened to the car?”

“It must have driven up into the bay of the helicopter.”

“Is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Pave Low’s do have a tail ramp. Something could drive up into them, but I have no idea if a car would fit. In any case, it would be an incredibly dangerous and stupid thing to do, to drive a car up a loading ramp that fast, and even more dangerous for the pilot to fly away before it was completely secured.”

“But you’re sure that’s what happened?”

“Well, I don’t know. It was pretty hard to see from this distance. All I know is that the car was there, and then the helicopter obscured it, and then it was gone, and the helicopter hauled ass out of here.”

“You wouldn’t be kidding me, would you? This is serious.”

“I understand your skepticism.” Saleh smiled, and gestured toward his camcorder. “Fortunately for my credibility, I happen to have recorded it.”

“I’m going to need that tape.”

“I understand. I’d like it back when you’re finished. In the meanwhile, can you tell me what’s going on?”

Doherty looked away for a moment.

“Sal, I can’t tell you what I don’t know. We got a call to come look for anything out of the ordinary in this area. I figured I’d check with you, because you’re always out on your deck in the afternoon. If something unusual was happening, you’d probably see it. And maybe even film it.”

“Out of the ordinary?” Saleh looked doubtful.

“OK, there’s a little more to it than that. The air force thinks they detected missiles being launched from somewhere nearby. In fact, they put the launch site somewhere on the causeway. Did you see anything like that?”

“Nothing.” Saleh shook his head. “Yes, that is is serious. But what would they be shooting at, here?”

“They think maybe the President. He’s on Martha’s Vineyard this week.”

Saleh whistled. “Shooting missiles from here? That’s crazy. You would think they’d try from somewhere closer. Less warning and all that. And there’s no escape from the Cape. They’re trapped here, if they close the bridges and the airports. Trying to escape by boat would be ridiculous.”

“Well, that’s what makes terrorists terrifying. They don’t do what you think they’re going to do.” Doherty rubbed his brow for a moment.

“Well, I best get going. I’m going to check around, to see if anyone has seen anything. You tell me if you hear anything.”

Saleh unloaded his camcorder and gave Doherty the cartridge. “Things are going to be a little busy around here for a little while, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t want to be in any hurry trying to get off the Cape today, that’s for sure.”

“Good luck, Dick.”

“Oh, and I should tell you. You’ll probably have more visitors later. People who will ask more questions. It’s nothing personal. It’s just because you’re here, not because…”

Saleh knew what he meant. “Of course.”

When Doherty was gone, Saleh called to his sons. “We won’t be going to the beach today. We’ll be staying home. I’ll be in the family room, watching the TV. There may be important news today.”

His sons exchanged a puzzled look. Saleh rarely watched TV, and usually seemed to revel in his intentional ignorance of television news, preferring to read the paper every few days. Saleh’s opinion was that if the news was really important, it would still be important in a few days, and it was better to read a well-written summary written after the fact than watch interviews with people who were still trying to figure out what was happening.

Saturday, 2:36pm

Forty-five thousand feet above the Atlantic and twenty miles south of Martha’s Vineyard, Captain Brian “Pierogi” Pierson completed a slow turn to the north. Through the canopy of his F-15E Strike Eagle he could see, through a layer of broken clouds several miles below him, the outline of Martha’s Vineyard to north and Nantucket to the east.

“Nice view,” commented his WSO from the back seat. Brian was used to it; his WSO said it every time the islands were both in view. It had started as a joke and was now, after several hours, part of their ritual.

Since 9/11, there had always been at least one pair of Strike Eagles tracing endless ovals over the Atlantic south of Long Island and east of the New Jersey coast. They could loiter here, largely unobserved, and yet be over Boston, New York, or even Philadelphia in a matter of minutes.

Brian and his wingman were had flown this patrol many times, but rarely so far to the east. This week was unusual. The President was vacationing on Martha’s Vineyard, and that meant a shift in coverage to the east, so that the pattern was centered twenty miles south of Martha’s Vineyard.

It also meant that there was more activity in the air than usual. Brian knew that there were two F-22’s flying a similar pattern, closer still to Martha’s Vineyard and twenty thousand feet below him, and an AWACS plane flying above them all, in its own pattern directly above the island. Brian scanned for them, but knew that even his extraordinary vision would be unlikely to be able to spot planes painted to match the clouds at that distance.

As long as the AWACS and F-22’s were there for the sake of the President, Brian was under their command. This meant boredom for Brian, his wingman and their WSO’s; usually their commander could be counted on to provide at least one interesting training exercise per weekend, but when they were standing watch over the President, Brian expected–and hoped for–nothing except endless ovals for several hours. The high point of the day–mid-air refueling–had come and gone, and there was probably nothing else on the schedule.

“Status check,” Brian said into his radio mic. Brian began a gauge check, walking through a mental list of readings to check and compare with their proper values. He knew that the electronics of his aircraft would warn him if they detected any serious problems, but he also knew that the electronics could fail. He knew that his WSO was doing the same thing behind him. In a few moments, they would each respond.

“Standby for flash message,” came an unexpected answer. Brian recognized the voice of the Colonel on the AWACS. He’d heard his voice before; it had always been cool, mechanical, and nearly emotionless. It was not emotionless now; Brian heard fear in his voice.

In a fraction of a second, Brian became completely alert, in a way that few people other than strike pilots can achieve. A flash message meant that something very important was happening, and Brian was about to become a part of it.

“Eagles, Lassie mission course 050, range 50 miles.”

Brian began his turn northeast before the Colonel had finished his sentence.

“I have the lead,” Brian announced to his wingman as he finished his turn and rolled into a steep dive to help his plane gain speed, and then engaged the afterburner. The powerful engines accelerated the plane ferociously.

“Launch estimated three minutes ago,” continued the Colonel. “Sending approximate launch coordinates.”

Despite his training, a chill went down Brian’s spine. Lassie was the mission code for launch site suppression strikes–the polite military euphemism for killing the crew and destroying the equipment of a missile battery before they could launch their missiles, or before they could escape if the site wasn’t detected before launch. Brian had flown Lassies during the second Gulf War, and knew that it was always a race–the Air Force could usually detect a launch and direct strike planes to the site within ten minutes, but their enemy was often able to flee the site and evade pursuit in little more than six. That was in the desert, where there was little cover. Brian looked at his course and realized that he was heading to the northern end of Cape Cod, much of which was blanketed in thick pine forests and other places to hide.

Brian knew that he had only a few moments to cover the fifty miles if he was to have any hope of catching the missile crews at the site, but he also knew what his aircraft could do. He could cover the fifty miles in less than three minutes. He was already five miles north of Vineyard Haven before the sonic boom from his plane startled the tourists arriving on the ferry.

“Multiple subsonic cruise missile launches detected. Probable target near Chilmark.”

Brian had never been to Martha’s Vineyard, and did not know its geography, but he recognized the name of the town from a newspaper story he’d read that morning. The President was there today.

“Configure radar for booster plume detection,” Brian said to his WSO. Although cruise missiles were very hard to detect and track once launched, their launch sites were relatively easy to spot because they typically used a solid fuel booster to gain initial speed, and the propellant used by these boosters was easy to detect. If it wasn’t too windy at sea level, they’d have a good chance of finding the site very quickly. The only question is whether the enemy would still be there.

His WSO acknowledged the order. There was ice in his voice. Someone was throwing missiles at his commander in chief, and that someone was going to pay.

Windows rattled as Brian made landfall on the Cape and crossed over Hyannis at more than twice the speed of sound. A moment later he was back over the ocean, this time over Cape Cod Bay, shattering the peace of the sheltered beaches of Dennis and Brewster.

His wingman dropped back; Brian’s role as lead was to find the launch site as quickly as possible and locate the crews, but was difficult to attack ground targets precisely at high speed. That was the job of his wingman, who would trail behind him at a slower speed and be ready to attack any targets Brian identified.

Wellfleet harbor loomed before him as Brian and his WSO silently ran through their checklists: look for roads, look for groves, hollows, warehouses, any other hiding spots. In this environment, there was a possibility that the crews might flee by boat, but it was unlikely. The first thing to look for was a truck or a group of vehicles heading in the same direction, or perhaps a large helicopter leaving the area.

Saturday, 2:34pm

Dedi Perlman texted while she walked. It was a bad habit, and she knew it, but texting had become one of her primary modes of interacting with her daughter, and the walk from Bellevue to the Union Square subway station constituted most of her free time. At work, she couldn’t text, and in the tunnels of the subway, the reception on her phone was unusable. From the moment she entered the station until she emerged from the station down the block from her home, she knew that she’d receive no messages. It wasn’t uncommon for there to be four or five messages from her daughter queued up by the time she emerged onto the street.

After a lifetime living in Manhattan, Dedi felt safe on the lower east side, and did not worry about the stories she had heard about muggers targeting people who paid too much attention to their phones and not enough to their surroundings. She was more worried about the kids on skateboards in Union Square; she barely avoided collisions with them on several occasions. The skateboarders were out in force today, enjoying the beautiful weather.

As she approached the entrance to the station, Dedi was focused on her attempt to finish a text to her daughter, asking her whether there was anything she needed from the grocery store and to please empty the cat tray before Dedi returned home. As she pushed the send button, she looked up just in time to avoid walking into a woman who was emerging from the entranceway.

“I’m sorry; excuse me,” Dedi apologized, expecting no response, but acknowledging that it was her lapse that lead to the near collision.

The woman stopped in front of her, effectively blocking the entrance. She was not a large woman; average height but thin, and with long, white hair. She was dressed well, in a long gray skirt-jacket. Dedi expected to be mildly harrangued, but not physically assaulted.

Dedi was relieved, but not put off her guard entirely, when she noticed that the woman was smiling.

“It’s polite of you to apologize,” the woman began, trailing off in mid-sentence.

“Oh, you’re Doctor Perlman!” she resumed, in a more animated tone. “We’ve never met; so don’t worry that you don’t recognize me. But I remember that you gave a talk in Boston six years ago, on rapid the diagnosis of traumatic injuries of the brain, and three years ago on surgical techniques to relieve stress due to swelling of the temporal lobe and improve the healing process from skull fractures over the surface of the temporal and parietal lobes. I believe that talk was in Los Angeles–but it was very similar to the one you gave later that month in Denver, and I might have them confused.”

Dedi didn’t remember much about the talk she’d given in Boston, but she did remember the talk she’d given in Denver. It had been a small seminar–no more than a dozen attendees. This woman hadn’t been one of them; Dedi would have remembered.

“I find your work on traumatic head injuries very interesting,” the woman continued, reciting a list of publications, some of which Dedi could scarcely remember writing.

Dedi began to suspect that she was dealing with a lunatic. This woman appeared to have an obsession with head injuries, and, what was worse, seemed to know quite a bit about her.

The woman paused for a moment, and when she continued her tone was more subdued. “You probably think I’m a little crazy, stopping you like this. But I was just reading some of your papers recently, and then bumping you into the street was like some kind of serendipity. I’m sorry to have kept you, but I feel very lucky to have met you!”

The woman paused again. “Are you going to answer that?”

Dedi realized that her cell phone was ringing. She turned away, shielding the screen of her phone from view–a habit most doctors learn in order to preserve the appropriate level of confidentiality for information about their patients. Dedi didn’t recognize the number, but recognized it as an opportunity to release herself from this strange conversation.

“Please excuse me; I have to take this,” Dedi said, turning back to the woman.

The entranceway was empty. Dedi was alone.

Saturday, 2:29pm

Sally was too stunned to move, but Victor was on his feet before Judy stopped moving. He leaped over the table with surprising grace and in two quick steps was crouched next to Judy, but Magda was there even before him. She looked for a second at Judy, and then turned to Victor, silently shaking her head.

Victor turned back to Sally. “She is alive,” he said, “but she is badly hurt. We need to get her to a hospital immediately.”

Sally’s heart sank and she was gripped by terror. “Oh god, we can’t. We can’t get her off the island. The tide is in! The causeway is flooded. We can’t get off the island for another hour, maybe two. Not even in the jeep.”

“We can’t wait. We may only have minutes.” Victor seemed to be speaking to himself. “We need to go now,” he muttered.

“Victor, you mustn’t,” Magda said, in a quiet but stern voice that surprised Sally and frightened her nearly as much as Judy’s limp form.

Sally looked at Victor. “Mustn’t do what? What do you mean?” There was more than a hint of hysteria in her voice. She tried to stand and was nearly overcome with dizziness.

Victor looked puzzled, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer, and then the moment was broken by a ring from Victor’s cell phone. Sally recognized Adrianna’s ringtone. Before answering, Victor spoke. “Magda, you know that it’s already done. And you know that I need your help. Judy needs your help.”

Magda’s features melted from defiance to acceptance. “Yes.”

Victor opened the phone, lifted it to his ear and, without pausing, said “Call me in the car in thirty seconds.” He immediately closed the phone again and put it in his pocket.

“Sally, we are taking your daughter to the hospital. I need you to come with us. She will need you there. We are leaving now.”

Sally couldn’t answer. She tried to force herself to think, to come up with a plan, to do something, but her mind was consumed with terror. Her legs felt like rubber and a rushing noise filled her ears. She recognized that she was about to faint, and the realization of her helplessness only added to her panic.

“Magda, take Judy to the car. I will bring Sally. Go.”

Magda lifted Judy and carried her out the door with a strength that surprised Sally, even as she battled her terror.

Sally reached for her cell phone, but it wasn’t in her pocket. Maybe she’d left it in the car, she thought. There was no time to look. She rose from her chair and started toward the kitchen, where there was a phone on the wall. She would call 9-1-1. She tried to convince herself that someone would know what to do.

Victor intercepted her and guided out the front door.

“There’s no time,” he said, inferring her intent. “We’ll call from the car.”

Victor supported Sally under her arm as he guided her down the path the driveway. Victor’s car was unlocked. Sally watched Magda ease Judy’s limp form into the back seat and stretched the seatbelt across it. Magda then ran around behind the car to the opposite door, where she climbed in and strapped herself. She cradled Judy’s head in her lap.

Victor lowered Sally into the front seat, and then quickly ran around to the other side of the car and climbed into the drivers seat. Sally was still in a state of deep shock. She watched impatiently as Victor quickly fastened the five-point harness–the first she had ever seen in a passenger car. She wondered how to fasten her own, but when she looked down, she discovered that she was already strapped in. She had no memory of fastening it.

Victor started the car. It made a low rumbling noise that Sally did not remember from earlier, when she had noted how quiet Victor’s car had seemed. She imagined that the exhaust pipes or muffler had already been eaten away by the salt water Victor through which had driven earlier, but she knew that this could not possibly have happened so quickly, and thinking about the causeway reminded her of the futility of trying to drive to the hospital, or anywhere else. The tide was up. The causeway was flooded. Her daughter was going to die before she could get help.

“Call 9-1-1! Maybe they can send a helicopter, or a boat. Something,” Sally pleaded. Victor did not reply.

The car phone rang. “It’s her,” said Magda. Victor tapped a button on the steering wheel and the ringing stopped.

“Where are we going?” Victor asked, backing quickly down the driveway, his head turned to look through the rear window. Halfway down the long driveway, Victor and turned the wheel suddenly and tapped the brakes. The car seemed to pirouette and suddenly the car was facing in the opposite direction, accelerating toward the road.

“New York City, Manhattan, 34th and 1st Avenue Heliport,” answered Adrianna.

“Boston is closer,” Victor replied. “Saint Elizabeth’s is very good, and there are other emergency rooms even closer.”

“The injury is too severe,” Adrianna responded. “The doctor you need is at Bellevue. There is nobody better closer than San Francisco. Tell Sally to be brave, and tell Magda it’s OK.”

“They can hear you,” Victor answered.

“Sally, you must be strong. Help is coming. Don’t panic,” Adrianna said. Sally felt her panic subside. There was something inexplicable about Adrianna’s voice that calmed Sally and gave her unexpected hope.

A cloud of dust seemed to chase after them as Victor accelerated down the washboard road. Sally knew that the narrowness of the road exaggerated the speed of the car, but she knew that they were traveling at a dangerous speed. The branches overhead flew past like the blades of a fan.

“Things are arranged,” Adrianna continued. “Magda will know what to do. I will tell you more in a few minutes, but right now you must focus on driving.”

Magda spoke from the back seat. “Judy’s bleeding from her ear. Hurry.”

“I’m hurrying,” Victor answered coldly.

Sally shouted, in desperate rate. “Call 9-1-1! We can’t get off the island,” Sally said. Terror began to eat away at her calm.

“We can get off the island,” Victor answered. “That won’t be a problem.”

The washboard rhythm of the road had stopped; they had reached the paved part of the road that lead to the causeway. The car felt like was skimming above the road. It seemed to Sally that Victor had been accelerating ever since leaving the driveway. She suspected that they were traveling faster than she had ever gone in a car.

“There’s no way this car can make it across the causeway,” Sally continued. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Manhattan is more than two hundred miles from here! And stop driving like a lunatic! You’ll get us all killed!”

“Sally, you need to trust me,” Victor responded.

The car shot into the open, emerging from the shady scrub pine forest into the bright sunlight at the crest of the dune above the marshes that bordered the causeway.

An enormous orange and white helicopter was hovering a few feet above the road to the causeway. Behind the helicopter, Sally could see that the causeway was flooded for half a mile.

Sally’s hands shot forward to the dashboard, anticipating Victor’s desperate attempt to stop before he crashed into the helicopter that blocked the causeway, and then she realized that Victor wasn’t trying to stop. The car continued to accelerate directly toward the helicopter, and Victor appeared to be be smiling.

Sally closed her eyes and tried to pray.

Saturday, 2:25pm

Sally placed two tiles on the board. “Seven. I’m afraid that doesn’t open things up much,” she apologized, updating the tally.

“I’m no worse off than I was,” Victor grumbled, and kneaded his temples for a moment.

Victor contemplated the letters that luck had given him. His narrow lead was threatened by a Q and J that had no apparent use.

“The letter fairy is toying with me again,” Victor muttered.

Sally chewed on the end of her pencil, lost in thought, beset by vowels.

“We don’t have to finish the game,” Sally answered.

“No. At this point I consider it a challenge. I am past the point of caring whether I win or lose, but I feel compelled to find a way to get rid of this trash.”

“You were mentioning something about Leonid a moment ago. How do you like working with him in your lab?” Victor asked, to distract Sally from how long it was taking for him to make his move.

Sally inadvertently rolled her eyes. “Well… one of my grad students once told me that they think he’s an alien from a very advanced and enlightened civilization, and that he has been sent here to share some of their wisdom with us, and to guide us, to help us get past our backwards, primitive problems.”

Victor smiled. “What do you think about that theory?”

“Well, as a scientist, I’m forced to consider any theory that explains the facts. He is brilliant, there’s no question about that. But he’s brilliant in a weird way. I mean, we both know a lot of smart people at the University, of course. But he seems to just know things, almost off the top of his head, that the rest of us need days to figure out. If he was an alien, that might explain it.”

“I don’t think that theory would last long in a fight against someone armed with Occam’s Razor,” Victor laughed. “Why would an advanced civilization go to all the trouble to send a secret ambassador an enormous distance across the vast, lonely gulfs of interstellar space just to enlighten the human race in such a convoluted, roundabout way?”

“Ah, he had an explanation for that.” It was Sally’s turn to laugh, and then blush slightly. “They sent him across the vast, lonely gulfs of space because he’s an asshole and they don’t want to deal with him, and they convinced him to keep his identity a secret so that he wouldn’t embarrass their species. You know, just in case our civilizations cross paths again.”

“So he’s an asshole?”

“Well, maybe, sort of. He’s not mean-spirited, but he gets on peoples nerves. He lacks people skills.”

“I’m sorry. I thought he would fit in well with your group. I’ve known Leonid for a long time, and didn’t expect a problem.”

“Well, you know, we probably wouldn’t have hired him if it wasn’t for your recommendation.”

“I hope it hasn’t ruined my professional reputation.”

Victor rearranged his tiles, but no ideas came to him. They still looked hopeless. He scratched his head and popped one of his knuckles.

“You could exchange tiles,” Sally suggested.

“There’s no point. The bag is almost empty. I’d just get my own letters back. Or, even worse, I might get the K that is hiding somewhere. Unless you already have it.”

Sally stuck out her tongue at Victor. “A proper lady does not talk of such things.”

Sally cocked her head; she could hear the girls coming back up the path from the beach.

“Let’s just call it a game. I hear the girls coming.”

“Yes, let’s. I don’t want them to see a grown man in this condition.”

As Sally reached for the bag to put away the tiles, she could hear the girls running across the wooden floor of the deck behind the house. “You can’t catch me!” Magda yelled, followed by Judy’s answering giggle.

The screen door banged open and Magda burst into the family room. With a giggle, she dove behind the couch to hide as Sally and Victor watched. A moment later, Judy charged through the same door. As she crossed the sill, the toe of her flip-flop caught on the door sill. She staggered forward into the room, arms out, onto the floor. As she fell, the side of her head hit the corner of the coffee table with a dull thud. She looked dazed for a moment, and then her eyes lost focus and her body went limp. One of her legs twitched twice, and then she lay still, eyes open, staring at nothing.

The room was silent for a moment, until the screen door swung shut with a bang.