Mercury Man Page 6

  He had already decided that he wouldn’t make for home. His mother would surely be there. He might put her in danger — at the least she would be frightened and ask a lot of questions. She might even call the company.

  No, he had to head for Grandpa’s place. Even though he was a little afraid to face him, he knew that old Jack wouldn’t panic, that he would know what to do. Tom desperately needed a plan of action.

  He reached Jefferson Street and stopped on the corner. The old Y, a gloomy pile of smoke-darkened brick, stood just opposite. He stared longingly at its fortress-like bulk and at the tangled traffic up on Hollis, just one block away. Was it better to duck into a building or to stay outside? Maybe the street was safer — the man wasn’t going to hurt him or grab him there. Or was he?

  A police car cruised up slowly and stopped near the corner, just outside the Y. Tom was tempted to run over, to tell them everything. But then it occurred to him that he might have committed a crime at Fabricon. He’d as good as broken into the place, and he’d stolen some clothing and set off an alarm. The police would-n’t believe his story. Fabricon had a good reputation. And who was he?

  All the same, he was sure there was something wrong at the computer firm. His friends had looked like zombies. If he hadn’t seen them being brainwashed, what had he seen? Maybe his grandfather would have the answer.

  Now he turned and saw the man coming on. A tall man, dark-haired, lithe, and almost handsome. He didn’t look like a killer. But then he was from Fabricon.

  The man was about half a block away. Tom thought, The guy won’t grab me in front of a police car.

  At the same time he was aware that a lot could happen under the noses of the police.

  The light changed and he jogged across the street. A burly cop eyed him as he passed but seemed to have little interest. At least there was no alarm out. Of course there isn’t! Fabricon can’t risk it!

  Tom struggled to catch his breath. Hollis Street loomed ahead, the downtown section, a tangle of light and shadow, a pandemonium of cars and trucks. A bus roared by, impatient drivers leaned on their horns, and pedestrians hurried home, loaded down with parcels.

  All these ordinary people, Tom realized, knew nothing; they had no idea of what was happening. They would be the first to want him thrown in jail for his escapade. “We need Fabricon,” they would say. “We don’t need crazy kids stirring things up!”

  Tom came out on Hollis, took a quick look over his shoulder, and saw the man coming on.

  But now he had an idea of how to shake him. He dashed across at the light, jogged past a candy store and a photo shop, then ducked through the doors of Zinser’s Five and Dime.

  It was a busy place, but shabby at the edges, open late to snare more customers. The smell of lunch counter grease, of popcorn, seemed to hang in the air, settling on the cheap dresses, the imitation leather, and the fake jewellery.

  Tom made his way quickly between the aisles. In here, he didn’t feel conspicuous. Nobody looked very prosperous, and nobody seemed to notice him — which was exactly what he was counting on.

  Tom had worked at Zinser’s for one miserable weekend, before he called his grandfather and begged him to let him quit. The store manager had been a nasty brute who made him lift huge boxes, cut his lunch hour, and sneered at his acne.

  As a result of his brief stint, though, Tom knew that Zinser’s back entrance ran into a parking lot on Madison Street, the next one over from Hollis. The Madison Street bus ran south and passed within two blocks of his grandfather’s.

  Tom took a deep breath, pushed through the double doors at the end of the main aisle, and walked boldly into the gloomy inner sanctum. A fat man behind a desk growled at him.

  “What can I do for you, kid?”

  “Uh … sorry. My little brother, I think he ran out this way.”

  Not stopping to gauge the man’s reaction, Tom dashed between piled boxes and racks of clothing, dodged a couple of trash cans, and reached the back entrance.

  As he stumbled into the crowded parking lot, he thought, Now the guy in black will track me. He’ll find out I’ve gone this way and get right after me. If only I can catch a bus. … Who is this guy? The question pounded in his brain, took on the rhythm of his motion. He must have been watching Fabricon the whole time. He was waiting there, outside, confident that Tom would reappear.

  Why hadn’t he just come in to nail him there?

  He ran two blocks along Madison. There was no way he could stand and wait, even though there was no sign of his pursuer. Minutes later, a bus came lurching along and Tom climbed gratefully in. The vehicle was full of shoppers, a few older people, and mothers with their children.

  It was the first time he had felt safe in quite a while.

  He got off the bus and walked the two blocks to his grandfather’s. It wasn’t that late yet, and he was sure he’d find the old man up. He hoped he was in a good mood and that he hadn’t had too much grog after dinner.

  Tom rang the doorbell, waited, and then rang again. The house lights were on and he thought he heard the sound of harmonica music.

  He pounded on the door and heard groanings and mumblings inside — his grandfather’s voice.

  Suddenly the door was flung open and Jack Sandalls, red-eyed and blustering, stood gaping at him.

  “Tom! What in hell are you doing here?”

  Tom shrank back. He felt awkward and foolish. But, almost immediately, Jack’s gaze softened.

  “Well, come on in, son. Don’t let all the hot air of the city get in my place.”

  Jack shut the door, flashing a slightly uneasy smile as he held up his famous harmonica.

  “Musical evening,” he explained.

  Tom, who could smell the alcohol on his breath, smiled and nodded.

  His grandfather claimed he could play everything from “Stars and Stripes Forever” to “Liebestraum” on the harmonica, although Tom had only ever heard “Blow the Man Down,” and that only when his grandfather had had a few, which was clearly the case this evening.

  As they walked toward the kitchen, Jack leaned over and whispered into Tom’s ear. “Got a little company tonight. Maid’s night off, you know.”

  He winked. Tom winced but tried to get into the spirit of things. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Grandpa.”

  At the same time he was thinking, I need help badly and Grandpa’s gone and got drunk. I shouldn’t have come here. What am I going to do now?

  “I’d like to call my mom,” he said.

  “You can call her in a minute, Tommy boy. Come and say good night to Maisie first.”

  Maisie, one of the two owners of the house, was a large woman with flowing white hair, lively eyes, and a striking hooked nose. She seemed to take up a lot of space and had a Mother Hubbard air about her that made Tom a little uneasy. When he first met her he had commented to his grandfather about the nose.

  “Gives her character,” Jack had assured him

  As Tom came into the kitchen, Maisie stood up. Wobbling a little, she greeted him with a warm, slightly glassy-eyed smile.

  The remains of a meal lay on the kitchen table — a roast, bits of bread, an enormous pie, a couple of half-empty wine bottles, and several crumpled paper napkins.

  “Maisie brought me over a wonderful dinner. Help yourself to some pie,” Jack said.

  Tom found suddenly that he was starving. He gobbled down some pie.

  “I’m on my way,” Maisie said and took a couple of uneasy steps across the kitchen.

  Jack took her arm. “I’ll just see my guest home, Tom. You make your phone call. Stay the night if you want. You look like you could use a good sleep.”

  “A wash, too, if it comes to that,” Maisie said. “Not that he isn’t a handsome one under all that dirt.”

  “Takes after his grandfather,” Jack said, winking at him. The old man and Maisie disappeared, amid much giggling and guffawing, in the direction of the front door. Tom sprang upon the phone and dialled his mother’s
number.

  It rang a few times, and then he heard a man’s voice on the other end. Reichert.

  He wanted to hang up. Instead, he held the phone at arm’s length for a minute and swore.

  Reichert said, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Can I speak to my mother?”

  “Oh, it’s you, guy? Your mother was wondering where you were. You didn’t call earlier, did you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, we’ve just been getting a few phone calls this evening — with nobody on the other end. Some nut, I guess. Here’s your mother.”

  Tom felt helpless, angry. At the same time he was afraid. Who’d been phoning the apartment? But when his mother came on, an unexpected rage overwhelmed him.

  “Why is he there again? Do you have to see Reichert all the time?”

  “Tom, don’t be upset. You and I have to have a nice long talk.”

  “You always say that, but we never do. Besides, I don’t want to talk.”

  “You mustn’t be hard on me, Tom. This heat wave’s got us all exhausted. You know what Chuck’s gone and done? He’s found us two nice fans — they’ve already done wonders to cool everything down here.”

  The words got out before Tom could stop them. “Is that so he can hang around there even more?”

  “Tom, I’m disappointed.”

  There was a long pause. Tom wiped his forehead and swallowed hard.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Hey, that’s much better. Now I’ve got to tell you before I forget. Willy called from Damato’s and he wants you to come in tomorrow. You’re feeling OK, aren’t you? I got your note. Did you go to a movie?”

  “I decided not to.” He hesitated, and then, suddenly inspired, told her, “I just went over to check out Fabricon.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I’ve heard it’s a great place to work. Jemmie was saying that her nephew just got hired there. It sounds like a great opportunity, Tom. Did you talk to anyone?”

  “A few people. There’s nothing definite. Listen, Mom, I’d like to stay at Grandpa’s tonight.”

  “OK.”

  The OK came a little too quickly for Tom’s liking. “Listen, Mom, make sure the door is locked tonight,” he said.

  “You mean the phone calls? Don’t worry about them. Just some crank. If you decide to come over later, wake me up. We can have a late-night chat, if you like.”

  “That sounds great, but I think I’ll stay here, Mom. I’ll come over and get my clothes in the morning.”

  Tom hung up feeling much closer to his mother. She always seemed to soothe his worst fears. But what were his worst fears in this case? Reichert was disgusting, but tonight he had other worries. He had a terrible feeling that there would be some bad repercussions over his visit to Fabricon.

  He had a crazy idea that it was the man in black who was making the phone calls. But how could that be, since the man couldn’t possibly know who he was?

  Jack returned and started clearing up the kitchen. He was good at pulling himself together, even after a lot of drinks. He put on a kettle to boil and lit his pipe, then looked at Tom questioningly and waited.

  “Something’s up, Grandpa,” Tom said, collapsing into a chair by the wood stove.

  “Oh, I can see that all right. Don’t tell me you’ve gone and robbed a store.”

  “Sorry I arrived out of the blue, but I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  Tom hesitated and got started slowly. He talked about his impressions of his friends, about Fabricon, about the night’s adventure and the man in black. He didn’t mention sending away for the Mercury Man ring. That seemed to have taken place in another world, a world of crazy dreams and speculations. All of a sudden he had run head-on into reality. He had entered a space where there were no superheroes and no magic rings — just powerful forces whose secrets you mustn’t even think about.

  When he had finished, his grandfather stopped to relight his pipe. He asked a few questions, listened patiently to Tom’s answers, then cleared his throat and said, “The problem is I’m not sure I believe all of it. And if I don’t believe it, who else will?”

  Tom jumped up to protest. “But, Grandpa!”

  “Just a minute! I’m not saying you’re lying to me, son. I know you wouldn’t do that. What I’m trying to get across to you is that there’s a lot of speculation here. You don’t really know that your friends were being hypnotized or brainwashed, do you?”

  “But I saw them!”

  “You caught a glimpse from a balcony. That’s not enough! There’s no proof of anything. And think about it. Why should an up-and-coming computer company brainwash a bunch of kids? Even assuming they could do it, it doesn’t make sense. Why risk their reputation for such a small return? To get a few kids hyped up on the company? It’s just crazy!”

  “But Grandpa, you must have heard about Dr. Tarn. He’s been in the newspapers — one of MIT’s geniuses, they say. He has a lot of weird theories on the brain. He might be doing some kind of mind experiment, or even using kids in his research because he thinks what he’s doing is important enough to justify anything.”

  Jack shook his head. “The evil genius idea, huh? And what about Binkley, the CEO? You think he’d just go along? C’mon, Tom, there’s got to be a better explanation than that.”

  “All I know is what I saw.”

  “You could have been mistaken in what you saw. I’ll tell you, Tom — the thing that might make it stick is the man in black. I think he’s the key to the whole thing. The only trouble is that his actions don’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why would he be waiting around outside? Once he got you in the building he’d be in there to make sure you stuck. Are you sure this guy was following you?”

  “Grandpa!”

  “All right, all right, you’re sure. Then I guess you might see him again, and if you do, you’re going to have to go right up and talk to him.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t mean in a dark alley, of course. But in a public street, why not? You have a right to ask him why he’s trailing you. I just wish I could be there when you confront him.”

  “You think he’ll show up again?”

  “If he’s part of some conspiracy, sure. You might not be too difficult to trace.”

  Tom shivered. “Grandpa, someone was phoning the apartment tonight. Mom told me. But they hung up without speaking.”

  Jack’s look was grave. “I would expect something like that. If he gets through when you’re there alone, talk to him. Then let me know right away. Now look, we both have to think things out. You need some rest and so do I. You go and clean up, have a shower, and I’ll set up the sofa in the office for you. We’ll talk more about this over breakfast.”

  As soon as his grandfather suggested this, Tom realized how exhausted he was. Even so, he dragged himself to the shower, while Jack sat smoking and drinking coffee, looking grave and preoccupied.

  When Tom finished in the bathroom he found the bed in the office laid out with clean sheets and a pillow. His grandfather stood at the door and said quietly, “Try to get some rest. Nobody’s going to bother you here. I’ll try to sleep on this. We’ll work out a strategy over breakfast.”

  But Tom sat up, restless, hearing sounds all around the house and out in yard. A couple of times he went to the window and peered into the semi-darkness, expecting a figure to rise from the skeletal lilac bush. Finally, he took down his grandfather’s Mercury Man comics and began to read them through. When he got to the fourth comic, the one in which Mercury Man was about to foil the Nazis at a California airplane factory, he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Pursuit Continues

  “Two hash coming up!” shouted Fast-Fry Willy from the window. A couple of customers looked up hopefully. Willy’s hash and scrapple were famous. Tom wiped the counter and stared out beyond the neon and the slatted blinds at the grey street. Nothing suspicious was happenin
g out there — it was just another grubby morning on the east side, enlivened as usual by the smell of good food and strong coffee, the rumble of conversation and laughter, the flare of cigarettes being lit like candles in the smoky den that was Damato’s.

  And across the room and through the smoke Tom saw a reassuring sight: his grandfather at a corner table, reading a tabloid and slyly watching the door for any sign of a stranger.

  Tom worked up front at Damato’s Diner, but not regularly, because the two behind-the-counter men, Fast-Fry Willy and Singapore, were almost never absent. When he really needed the money Tom would sometimes fill in for one of the kitchen guys, but mostly he liked it at the front.

  The diner was actually an old place from the forties, looking a bit like a shabby boxcar but fixed up enough to pass the health and fire regulations, if only just. It had air conditioning, after a fashion, and an unflappable waitress named Hester, who never let a coffee cup get less than three-quarters full.

  Nobody seemed to know who owned the restaurant — it certainly wasn’t anybody named Damato — and nobody much cared. It was located on the edge of Mechanicstown, near the Greyhound bus station, and populated by old men who complained about enlarging prostates and shrinking horizons, a few tight-lipped Vietnam vets, various winos and ex-acidheads, non-fastidious cleaning ladies, slick men who ran pawnshops, busted policemen, and small-time delivery drivers.

  Tom was good with most of these people because he knew how to listen. Only rarely did any of the patrons ask him embarrassing questions, such as: “Are you gonna spend your whole life pouring coffee?” “What’s your dad do, anyway?” “What’s the name of your girlfriend?”

  That morning he had woken early and he and his grandfather had gone together to the apartment so he could change his clothes and check things out. His mother, already at work, had left a note that said, “Maybe we could have a pizza together tonight? Love you.”