D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

The only building visible between the flashing rows of neon signs was the Christianarchist Church of Vancouver. The Christianarchists had been founded two decades before the government collapsed. In the Old Days, they spent most of their time planning political protests and talking about how they would serve no authority but God and would gladly kill anyone who said differently. Now that the government was gone, no thanks to them, they mostly spent their time standing around saying, “Great, that’s exactly what we wanted. Anybody thinking about forming a new government? No? You sure? Because you’d better not! Alright then. Who wants coffee cake?”

Finally, he arrived at Gabrielle’s house. The instant he set foot in the yard, a portly man in an ill-fitting security guard’s uniform stepped out from behind a tree. “You there! Stop what you’re – Oh god! It’s you again!” He drew his revolver and, hand shaking, attempted to aim it at Nick’s chest. “You’d better get out of here, mister. You’re not allowed on the premises.”

“Relax, guy,” Nick said, showing his hands empty. The guard cocked his gun. Nick lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, and pried the revolver from his hand. He opened the cylinder and dumped the bullets into his palm. Tossing the gun in the grass, he slipped the bullets in his jacket pocket. “Now that everybody’s calm, I just want to talk to Ms. Fairbanks for a minute.”

“You can’t. She’s on a world concert tour. She’s headed to Tokyo, then Berlin, Moscow, Boise…”

“Do you have a transmission frequency where she can be reached?”

“I’m only allowed to give out that information to friends and family and the gentlemen and ladies she is currently sleeping with. And you’re none of those things.” He gestured at the front porch. “If you want, you can ring the bell and leave a message. Camera’s just above the house numbers.”

“No thanks. I’ll just have to hope that her tour keeps her too busy to try to kill me again…” He walked back to his car, dejected. “Can’t investigate her while her house is being guarded. If I knock out the security guard again, he’ll probably sue me. Have to move on to another suspect… Next in line, Clayton West.”

He made a quick stop at a hardware store to pick up some insulated rubber gloves before continuing to Clayton’s place. He didn’t want to climb down the chimney again, as the soot had completely ruined his jacket. He had also ruined his underwear, but that happened when saw the German shepherd. There was also the matter of Clayton’s alarm system.

Snapping on the rubber gloves, he pulled the hydraulic jack from his trunk and carried it to Clayton’s front porch. He bent a paperclip into a “U” shape and jammed it into the electrical outlet by the door, producing a dull popping sound and the smell of smoke. “The electrical short should mean the alarm is off. If not, I’ll have to have another talk with security. I don’t have enough money left in my bribery budget. They’ll either take my car or shoot me. Quite possibly both.”

Shoving the hydraulic jack into place, he pushed the door out of its frame. He waited a few moments for the sound of sirens but, hearing nothing, continued inside.

Clayton had left his television on. An excited announcer was introducing a new cartoon series: “Captain Steam, The Coal-Powered Superhero! As fast as a nineteenth century locomotive, Captain Steam travels the country bringing criminals the toxic smoke of justice!”

The photos in the living room were gone, the walls stripped bare. “Perhaps Clayton discovered that I’d been here and he decided to hide the evidence. Or maybe he found someone else to stalk, and he’s slowly replacing them with photos of his new lady. …Lucky her.”

He headed for the bedroom. No dog. He decided to dig through the enormous, walk-in closet. He found a large, cardboard box marked “Renée’s shit – bonfire.” Makeup, tampons, a box of Flavifiers, forty-three different kinds of shampoo, and a threadbare, gray sweater. “She was wearing that sweater in a bunch of the photos. Since Clayton still has it, he must have been dating her when the photos were taken!” Searching the rest of the closet, he found some cufflinks and a leather jacket. He decided to take them with him, in case they turned out to be evidence. Or expensive.

Sophia was up and getting ready for work, singing in the shower. She was a beautiful woman, but her signing sounded like a cat. Being sawed in half.

Nick poured himself a cup of coffee and reviewed his notes. “It looks like Clayton’s in the clear. What next? If I can’t get to Faith at work, maybe I can catch her at her boyfriend Donald’s place.” He dug through his closet for his disguise trunk. He selected a black, curly wig, a fake mustache, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. “While I’m there, I should see what I can dig up on Donald.”

Donald Canard’s place was a few blocks from the Pearson Airport. The smallish ranch house was a textbook example of the “less is more, and by ‘more’ I mean ‘more expensive’” school of architecture. Donald had a black and yellow Cessna sitting in his front yard. There were deep ruts in the grass from where the tiny plane had taxied back and forth. While there were no rules against using a residential road as a runway, it was still frowned upon by security patrols, insurance companies, and the kids playing street hockey.

The bell played the first few notes of Wild Blue Yonder . The door opened to reveal a slightly chubby man in a wool cardigan. “Hello? What is it?”

“Mr. Canard?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you at the dinner hour, but it’s important. I’m Glen Ridwick. I do volunteer work for Scunner Consulting. I was wondering if I could talk with you for a moment.”

“Certainly. Come inside.” Donald led Nick to his sunken family room. A recliner and couch lined one wall, and a glass computer desk stood against the other. The computer was running a holographic screen saver, tiny sparrows flying a few inches in front of the monitor. Nick took off his coat and sat on the couch.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Donald asked. “I have coffee, ice tea, and Cloud Nine.” Cloud Nine was an energy drink, lightly fruit flavored and filled with caffeine, vitamins, and antidepressants.

“Coffee would be great.”

“Alright. …Oh, actually, I finished the last pot. I’ll put on a new one.”

As soon as Donald walked out the door, Nick stepped across the room to the computer. Shooing away the holographic birds, he searched the hard drive for anything incriminating. Other than a few games, everything was locked. “Don’t have time to try to guess his password. I’ll have to try something else.” He couldn’t open any of the folders, but he could see their names. One file in particular was very interesting: Quick-E Backup Pro. The software made continuous backup copies of a user’s files. If their hard drive malfunctioned or they dropped their laptop in the hot tub, users could simply visit the Quick-E website to download copies of all their files.

He switched the screen saver back on and returned to his seat. Moments later, Donald returned, carrying two steaming mugs on a tray. He set the tray on an end table and took a seat in the recliner. “What did you needed to discuss, Mr. Ridwick?”

Nick suddenly realized he hadn’t planned a cover story. “So… I assume you know Reid Mason?”

“Yes, of course. He’s my employer. I fly Mr. Mason to natural disasters, funerals, and other media events.”

“What’s his connection with that pop singer Gabrielle?”

Donald grabbed his mug from the tray and blew away the steam. “She read a few of Reid’s newsfeed articles and, apparently, her philosophical views were similar, so she decided to give his group some funding. Of course, this is all quite hush-hush. She doesn’t want Scunner Consulting’s more controversial actions to bring her bad publicity. Pop stars aren’t supposed to have opinions. They’re just supposed to sing, look pretty, and ‘accidentally’ expose their genitals to photographers. …Why do you ask?”