Joe Haldeman - Work Done for Hire

I wrote all of that, and the latitude and longitude, on the back of a postcard extolling the virtues of Traveler’s Rest.

It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. What were the chances that somebody who didn’t live on that little island would nail up a throwaway calendar from there?

I could hear a despised math professor from my freshman year sneering that the probability was non-zero. Which meant not bloody likely, but the only chance you have .

But wait. There was a retro phone with a rotary dial on the table. I selected it and enlarged it. Someone had carefully printed a number with clear block letters on the white circle in the center of the dial.

I scribbled that down and Googled “phone number” + “land line” + “find address.”

It gave me a service called FindFone. I was never so glad to have my Amex card number memorized. I typed it in and FindFone charged me ninety-seven cents to divulge 127 Ring Road, Swan’s Island, Maine.

The clerk came back and I thanked her and rushed back to the room.

Threw everything in the car and reviewed my options. I could go to an airport and take a chance; try to fly there on my illegal credit card. Airports are a little less forgiving than rustic taxicabs on that, though.

I drove for a couple of hours and then stopped to get a sandwich at a Pilot truck stop. Walked through the big convenience store, looking for inspiration, and possibly found it.

The car was parked behind a Dumpster, not visible from the shop. I got in and almost enjoyed the microwaved cheeseburger and an ice-cold Coors. Not my brand of choice, but there was nothing less American on offer.

I had bought three other items, cash, paying at a register that was not visible from outside: a sling for my left arm, masking tape, and a roll of aluminum foil. I wanted to reconstruct a vaguely remembered Science Fair project from junior high school.

One of the kids had a demonstration of the “Faraday Cage,” basically a box that blocked electromagnetic radiation. He’d built boxes of chicken wire, fine-mesh metal screen, and plain metal. The demonstration involved putting a cell phone into each cage and calling it from different distances.

I couldn’t remember what he had proved with it, but it gave me an obvious idea. Would a container made of aluminum foil block a radio signal?

Maybe you wouldn’t need a whole room with aluminum wallpaper. If I wrapped my hand in aluminum foil, would it block the transmitter buried in the flesh? If I wrapped the arm up past the elbow, would that keep radio waves from leaking out?

Wished I knew more science. The “open” end of the cylinder of foil would be full of muscle and bone. How well would radio waves travel in and out through that?

Car radios work, inside a “box” that’s mostly metal. But I vaguely remember something a teacher said in school about how they got around that. I was probably studying the back of Rosy Bender’s neck, and trying to imagine the rest of her skin, and somehow didn’t quite get what he was saying about radio waves.

Looked around and didn’t see any witnesses, and the car’s windows were tinted anyhow. I tore off a long sheet of foil and wrapped it around my left hand and arm, molding it up past the elbow. Having a right angle in the tunnel of foil might help; there wouldn’t be a straight line from the bug to the outside world.

Good thing I’d gotten a wide roll. It overlapped with plenty of room to spare. I wound masking tape around the whole thing generously, then managed to hide most of it inside the sling.

I would still be able to fire the rifle or the revolver, but probably couldn’t reload either of them without tearing the foil off the left hand. Well, if it came down to shooting, I wouldn’t be worried about radio waves.

I’d worked out a vague plan. Might as well get going.

A county road paralleled the interstate for two dozen miles, so I’d follow that. I put the cell on the passenger seat, in case I had to do dangerous stuff, like driving while talking on the phone, or shooting at people. Started the car and moved out.

The road was almost deserted. After a few miles, the cell buzzed, and I picked it up. “What?”

I resisted the urge to laugh into the awkward pause. “Your… car is moving,” the woman said.

“It’s your car, I think, and it’s headed for Washington,” I said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Why aren’t you on the highway?”

“I have three days. It’s an unfamiliar car, so I’d rather not speed. Why is that a problem?”

“Take your next right. Get back on the highway.”

“Okay.” He didn’t say, We seem to have lost your hand.

Maybe time to confuse things more. Steering with my elbows, I unwrapped the foil from my hand. Then as I drove along, I covered it up for a few seconds at a time. Then I left it uncovered. Let them think that the battery inside my hand was failing.

My half-formed plan was to set them up so they wouldn’t panic if the signal from my hand flickered on and off. Over the next three days, I wouldn’t cover it up for more than a minute. But if I ever did want to drop off their radar screen, I could do it, and the first thing they’d think was battery failure.

Of course they could track me anyhow, as long as I stayed in this car. That was okay for the time being. Since I didn’t know where Kit was, my only hope was that their directions would lead me to where she was being held.

I did take the next right, and obediently got back on I-85. The screen button said I was 980 miles from Washington. What could I do in 980 miles?

Sleep a couple of times. I picked up the phone and thumbed it. “This car doesn’t have Supercruise. How long do you think I can drive before I fall asleep at the wheel?”

“We will tell you when to stop.” The woman again.

“What if I have to pee?”

“Go ahead,” she said, a trace of amusement in her voice. “It’s not your car.”

I drove along eight or ten miles, until the next exit sign. Picked up the phone: “Seriously, I need some coffee if I’m going to stay on the road. There’s a place in two miles.”

“All right,” she said. “Use the facilities. Treat yourself to a candy bar.”

I would, actually; get the blood sugar fired up. I pulled into the rest stop and parked. I watched for a few minutes, and no black SUV followed me in.

Well, if they could assassinate a president, or someone important, they could probably afford a second car.

On impulse, I opened the back door and took the rifle out of its box. I propped it up diagonally across the passenger’s seat, then left the car unlocked and went to get my coffee.

I took my time in the bathroom, then got a coffee and a pastry. I stood and enjoyed the block of crumb cake with apricot filling, watching the car from the rest-stop foyer, in air-conditioned comfort. Just as I finished the crumb cake, a fish took my bait.

A stern-looking state trooper watched me saunter out with my half-finished coffee.

“Is this your car, sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You left it unlocked with a weapon in the front seat.”

“Really?” I took out the keychain and pushed the button twice. The car honked. “Good grief. Careless of me.”

“Well, be more careful, sir.” He walked away, without asking for my license and registration. What kind of a police state is this? How do you know I’m not headed to Washington to shoot the god-damned president?

I hoped he at least had written down the license plate number or taken a picture. Maybe he had one of those microcameras in his hat.

But I put the ignition key in and turned it, and nothing happened. Took it out and tried it again. Then a big dark shape pulled up behind me and stopped.