Ted Bell - Phantom

It was Dr. Cohen’s widow.

“May I sit down, Mr. Kelly?”

“Of course, Stella. Let me move over. You used to call me ‘Brick,’ remember?”

“Yes. Brick. That’s right. Thank you so much for coming all this way. You and the president and his wife. It would have meant so much to Waldo. He believed in you all, you know, Washington. Not so keen about some of the gentlemen who’ve passed through the White House of late. But he believed in us, do you know what I mean? All of us together. Americans.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“I’m supposed to be home now, receiving guests bearing casseroles. I just couldn’t do it. I happened to see you sitting over here-I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Of course, not, Stella. I’m glad we have this chance to-”

“He didn’t kill himself, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It wasn’t a suicide, like they’re saying. No, my Waldo was murdered, sure as I’m sitting here.”

“Stella, you don’t-”

“I told this to the local police. They said they’d look into it. But I could see the look on their faces. They think I’m just a crazy old woman who can’t face reality. So when I saw you just sitting up here all alone on this hill, I thought, well, if there’s anyone in the world who might listen to me, God parked him under that tree.”

“Tell me, Stella. Tell me why you think Waldo was murdered.”

“Oh, I’ve no idea why he was murdered. He didn’t have an enemy in this world. But I do have an idea how he was murdered. That’s why the police think I’m crazy.”

“How? How was your husband murdered?”

“He was… hypnotized. Put in some kind of a trance, I don’t know what else to call it. Here, let me show you something.”

She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and withdrew some object, her fingers closed around it tightly so that he couldn’t see what it was.

“Ready?” she said.

“Ready.”

She opened her hand to reveal a stunning piece of jewelry. It was a shimmering golden butterfly, perfect in every detail, perched on her palm. “Watch this,” she said, and gently stroked the folded wingtips. The gossamer wings slowly opened and began to move. And suddenly the butterfly lit off, darting this way and that before heading up into the branches overhead.

Stella closed her hand and put it back into the pocket of her raincoat.

Brick stared up in openmouthed wonder.

“Stella, what on earth?”

“Waldo made that for me. His gift. For our fiftieth wedding anniversary. He gave it to me just after we finished dinner. I cooked his favorite thing. Roast leg of lamb. Beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“Unbelievable. Stella, it flies…”

“That’s Waldo for you. Wouldn’t give a girl just any old ordinary piece of jewelry, now, would he?”

“But-”

“Let me finish my story. It won’t take long. He gave me the butterfly and after dinner we were in the kitchen, doing the dishes together like we always did, talking about our upcoming trip to Capri and how much we loved that island. That’s when the telephone rang in his study. He went in there to take the call. I heard him say hello but heard nothing after that. I got curious and went to check on him. He was just standing there, with the phone to his ear. When he saw me, he hung up and said he was going to walk the dog and for me to go on up to bed. I knew something was wrong. It was in his eyes. The way he spoke. The way he moved. I asked if he was all right and he said, oh, fine, you know. But he wasn’t. I asked him who it was on the phone. He said nobody. Just music. Really beautiful music. Heavenly, he called it. Transcendent, lovelier than Pachelbel’s Canon. And then he went and got his coat from the closet, put Feynman on his leash, and walked out the front door. And he never-he never came back, Brick. He never came back to me.”

He let her weep, putting his arm around her shivering shoulders and pulling her close to him.

Sobbing, she said, “Do you believe me, Brick? Am I just a crazy old woman?”

“I do believe you, Stella. I believe every word you’ve just said. And I will find whoever did this to your husband, I swear to you. No matter what it takes, I’ll find them and try to bring you some peace. It’s the least this country can do after all Waldo did for us.”

Stella withdrew her hand from her pocket once more and held it out, her empty palm up. The golden butterfly appeared, darting down from somewhere in the high branches above and alighted upon her outstretched hand. It settled, folded its wings, and she carefully put it back inside her pocket. She withdrew her hand once more and placed a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

“What’s this?” Kelly asked.

“Just after I found Waldo’s body, I ran to the lab to call for an ambulance. I found a name he’d scribbled on a notepad by the phone. He noted the time, you’ll see. He wrote 7:47 P.M., just before he came up to dinner. And that equation below has to do with the impossibility of surpassing the speed of light, by the way.”

“Thank you, Stella. It’s a good start.”

“Thank you, Brick,” she said, getting slowly to her feet. “I knew the instant I saw you standing by the grave that they’d sent me the right one.”

She turned and walked away down the hill, a black smudge of watercolor that eventually seeped into the grey mist and disappeared.

He opened the paper. On it a single scrawled word in Cohen’s hand: Darius. And beneath it an equation. Something to do with the speed of light. Brick got to his feet, stretching his long limbs. He knew what he had to do. First things first.

He needed to assemble his team.

Call C at MI6 in London. Get Alex Hawke on this.

At least he now had a name.

Darius.

U.S. Missile Defense Agency Launch Site, Fort Greely, Alaska

Rain was still falling on the corrugated tin roof of the Red Onion saloon. Lightning flashed on and off, and thunder shook the wooden walls. The streets outside were rivers of mud lit by sulfurous yellow arc lights. The Onion was the only place where a man could get a drink in downtown Camp Greely, population 328, including military personnel, their families, and civilians. Whoever coined the phrase “middle of nowhere” coined it right here in Greely. Try to find it on Google Earth. Seriously. Good luck.

Since he was “going underground” at 0600 tomorrow for a forty-eight-hour tour, Lieutenant Colt Portis was in the mood to drink. Portis was a “push-button warrior.” He had command of a group of U.S. Army personnel whose responsibility it was to defend America from an attack by hostile nations. Specifically, an attack utilizing intercontinental ballistic missiles launched from North Korea, Russia, or China.

The good-looking young army lieutenant pushed his empty beer glass across the battered bar and said to the barkeep, “Only if you’re not too busy, Griz.”

“Never too busy for you, General,” the bearded codger in the filthy white apron told the good-looking young army lieutenant. He snatched up his sudsy glass and pulled another pint. Portis turned to his right and spoke to his watch partner and fellow “Guardian of the North,” namely, anyone manning the ABM, or antiballistic missile, base here at Greely.

“Ready to beat feet, Speed?” he asked his friend.

“What?”

“Vamoose. Amscray. Leave?”

“Hold your horses, okay?”

Art Midge, who hailed from Lower Bottom, Kentucky, had only two gears: slow and slower, thus his base nickname “Speed.” The night they’d met, in this very saloon, Speed had said to him, “Know where Lower Bottom, Kentucky, is?”

“Nope,” Colt had said.