Don Bruns - Stuff to spy for

We’d have one more day to use the one in Conroy’s office.

“The sooner the better.” I just wanted this project to be over.

“Well, I was thinking. We could start with the president’s office. You know, get him taken care of first-wire it in and-”

“No. No. We’ve got the temporary detector already installed. That can be the last one you install.”

“It’s up to you.”

“Yes. It is.” Person in charge of the project or whatever. I started out to the parking lot, the brown package under my arm. This was a far better idea. Open this in private.

“Mr. Moore?”

“Yes, Eden?”

“You’re not allowed to take anything from the building.”

“This is personal, Eden. See?” I held up the remaining paper that was clearly stamped CONFIDENTIAL. Skip Moore.

“Makes no difference. Once it is received here at S.S., it remains here. Sorry.”

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even know what was in the package, and she was telling me I couldn’t take it outside. I felt like telling her that James was going to stand her up, but he probably wouldn’t agree to that. I think he wanted to see what was under that gray guard uniform too.

I walked back to a corner in the computer room, sat on the floor, and stared at my package. Then, with a single determination, I attacked the box with my box knife.

“Skip-”

“Go away, James.”

“But-”

“I’m busy.” I sliced tape, ripped paper, and finally cut through the box itself. I sensed James still standing over me.

“What the heck is that?”

I ignored him. It was the worst part of my birthday. The worst part of Christmas. Ripping open the packages. Bending back fingernails, paper cuts, trying to untie ribbons that weren’t meant to be untied. Finally I could see inside the box. Another box. Damn.

James had lowered himself, sitting on the floor across from me. “Dude.”

I ripped the cardboard from the first box, finally making a tear wide enough to pull out the second box. This was the one with the printing on the side. But the envelope inside was what caught my eye first. I yanked it out of the box and shoved it in my shirt pocket. By now I was ready to put a match to all the paper and cardboard and tape.

I looked up and James was staring at me. “Where did you get the package, Skip?”

“Special D, James. No problem. Confidential to Skip Moore.”

His eyes were wide, and he froze as I took the box knife to the tape that sealed the box.

“Skip.”

“What? Can’t you just leave it alone?”

He leaned down, grabbing the box from my hand as my box knife went flying. James started down the hall, package under his arm, running as fast as I’ve ever seen him run. I struggled to my feet, charging after him, hitting my pace and in seconds feeling winded and weak.

“James. Where are you-” Eden Callahan yelled as she jumped back from her post, and Andy Wireman staggered on his ladder as James ran by. Wireman held on as James hit the glass door with his shoulder and plowed on through, racing into the parking lot.

I got to the door as he heaved the box twenty feet in front of him, fell to the ground, and buried his head under his arms.

I stood in the doorway trying to catch my breath. The burning in my lungs wasn’t going away anytime soon. My roommate lay there for at least sixty seconds and I just kept gasping for air, thinking I was probably going to throw up.

I watched him pull himself to his feet, staggering as he walked back to the building. As he got closer I could see him sucking in oxygen. We were a real pair.

Finally he reached the door, and I pushed it open for him, barely able to move the heavy metal and glass. James walked in, leaning against the inside wall, eyes closed and his hand over his heart. I knew exactly how he felt. Finally he slid to the floor, slumping over, and breathing heavily.

Eden stood on the far side of the entrance area, hands on her belt, not saying a word. Wireman had come down from his ladder and was just standing there, staring at James.

Then my best friend opened his eyes, and saw the three of us. He also saw the two installers who were standing out in the hall, and J.J. who had walked in, looking very confused by the scene.

“Well,” James paused, surveying the growing crowd. “If it had been a bomb, you’d all be safe.”

People were nodding their heads in agreement, and I had no idea why.

We sat in the van, James just staring out the window. Andy Wireman had suggested a short break and I couldn’t argue with that. James reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the envelope that had been in the package.

“Well, read it.” He held the cigarette without lighting it. I tore it open, unfolded the paper, and read out loud.

Dear Skip and James,

I’m always running across new “stuff” that people can use to spy on other people. I don’t always have a personal use for the equipment, but I think you may find a use for this particular item. We’ve talked about it before, but I’m offering it to you for a demonstration if you’re interested.

I stared at the dented, broken box James held in his lap. The Sound Max. It was an infrared microphone recording device. The letter continued.

This baby will pick up and record sound from 200 yards away, and all you have to do is aim it at a window. Is it legal? Probably not. So be careful. I’m offering it to you as a demo. If you get into trouble with it, you can’t come back on me. I’d like it back in two weeks with your thoughts and comments. Oh, and my regards to Emily.

Thanks, guys.

Jody

Regards to Emily? It was a shot. But, he had sent us The Sound Max. I didn’t know why, but he had.

Finally James lit his cigarette and looked hard at the match before he tossed it into the parking lot. Taking a deep lungful of smoke, he slowly exhaled and frowned.

“Damn.”

“The Sound Max, James. The Sound Max.”

“Yeah. You know, if it wasn’t a bomb, that was going to be my next guess.”

“I understand there was an incident at Synco today.” The cold, harsh voice of Carol Conroy added to the day’s wonderful turn of events.

“Yes, there was.”

“Care to comment on it?”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer. “We’ve been a little on edge. With the suicide and your fear of being killed, I think my friend was taking some precautions.”

“Mr. Moore. You and your friend acted like idiots today.”

“Maybe. But I have a transcript of your husband’s phone conversation from yesterday. And that is what you’re paying me for.” The lady was paying me big bucks to be an idiot. Her idiot. I swallowed whatever pride I had.

“Because of your actions today, there are a number of people in that company who are asking questions. I wanted to run this inquiry or,” she paused, apparently not sure what to call it, “this, this mini-investigation, quietly. Very simply, I asked you to record conversations from office one. Now everyone is talking about a bomb threat. It certainly adds to the confusion, doesn’t it?” The lady was obviously irritated.

I drank my second Yeungling of the afternoon and listened to James rattling around in his bedroom. He should be the one dealing with this. If he hadn’t freaked out. “Mrs. Conroy, I have a transcript of the conversation. It’s what you asked for.”

“An actual recording of the conversation would be infinitely preferable. I believe that’s what I asked for.”

I thought back to our original conversations. “And I think I promised you notes.”

“So I’m to take your word for what was said?”