No, a nondescript, gas-powered, human-driven Detroit hunk of junk was the way to go today. Kyle had to fly, as they say, under the radar.
“This is good,” he said, from his spot in the rear seat, to Derek, up front behind the wheel. So Derek brought the car to a gentle stop and, with the engine still running, slipped out of the driver’s seat and came around to open the rear passenger door on the other side.
As Kyle got out, he asked, “How do I look?” He gently touched his mustache, ran a hand over his bald head, then patted the bulge of his stomach.
Derek appraised him. “Good.” He paused. “Maybe that’s not the right word. You look like you’ve let yourself go.”
“So you wouldn’t know?”
Derek’s head went side to side, but it was a gesture of encouragement. “You look fifty pounds heavier, and this” — and he touched himself just above the lip — “is holding just fine.”
“It ought to. It’s real.”
“If I passed you on the sidewalk, I’d have no idea. There’s not a picture in existence where you look the way you do now.”
Kyle smiled, nodded, then glanced at his watch. “Okay. So, be looking for me in about three hours.”
Derek nodded. They’d been over this many times. Get the boat from the marina a few miles north on the mainland while the boss did his thing on the island. Head out to sea. Rendezvous at Garrett Harbor. Bring the boss back home.
Good ol’ Derek, Kyle thought. At a time when pretty much everyone else had deserted him, Derek remained loyal to the end. Kyle wondered how much longer he’d be able to keep him on. Not that Kyle didn’t have funds squirreled away. When rich people got wiped out, it usually meant they were down to their last few millions, which was certainly true for Kyle. His worth was a mere fraction of what it was two years ago. Anyway, today’s events would determine whether he needed to find a way to hang on to Derek.
“If you have any problems, call,” Derek said.
Kyle patted his chest, making sure his phone was still in his pocket. “As long as our man on the scene does what he’s supposed to do, things should go fine.”
“And your tech friend in Russia,” Derek reminded him. “With the messaging.”
“Yes,” Kyle said.
Kyle hesitated one final moment, as though steeling himself for a long journey. He let out a long breath, nodded to himself, then turned and started walking toward the ferry. He fell into line with several others as they reached the metal ramp that led to the open ferry bay that would, any other day, be filling up with vehicles.
There was no ticket to show, no fare to pay this day. Arrival had essentially commandeered the ferry, and was picking up all costs.
A media ID, however, was required.
A stunning blonde woman in a clingy black dress was checking everyone’s credentials. She looked like she’d just walked off the set of The Price Is Right, Kyle mused. It surprised him that Arrival, considering who its CEO was, would resort to such outdated practices. The slinky model perched over a new car, that was something most auto shows had abandoned years ago along with in-dash cassette players.
Kyle reached into his jacket and produced a laminated card with his photo on it. The woman leaned in, inspected it, and flashed a mouth full of perfect, white teeth.
“Thank you, Mr.... Stapleton.” She grinned. “Wheel Base Trends, right, nice to see you. This headshot does not do you justice.”
He laughed. “You should see my passport pic. It looks like one of those shots the police issue when they’re trying to identify someone they’ve fished out of the Hudson River.”
The woman chuckled.
“How long’s the crossing?” he asked her.
“About an hour,” she replied. “They’re calling for rain, maybe fog, later in the day, so that might cause a delay on our return. But I’m sure it won’t be a big problem.”
“How’s the ferry in fog?”
The woman shrugged. “I work for Arrival, not the ferry company, but they’ve got all sorts of radar, right? Because they can do this run at night. I guess the ferries are already pretty much self-driving, aren’t they?”
“Suppose so,” Kyle said. “But they’re a bit tricky when it comes to the McDonald’s drive-through.”
Another laugh. “You’re funny,” she said, waving him on.
Once on the ferry, he climbed three sets of stairs to reach an upper level where there was a snack bar. Normally, all one could get was coffee and soft drinks and bags of potato chips and maybe a plastic-wrapped sandwich, but today, the Arrival corporation had laid on all kinds of goodies. Pastries, a guy making omelettes, a woman running a cappuccino machine. Trays overloaded with fruit and cheese. All Kyle wanted was a regular coffee, which he took in a paper cup, then headed out to the deck for some fresh air.
Standing at the railing, he gazed out across the water. There, more than five miles out, stretched across the horizon, sat Garrett Island. Brandon Kyle breathed in the sea air, felt the breeze on his face.
What a magnificent day. And it was only going to get better.
He glanced to his right and saw a woman he recognized. A TV reporter for one of the cable business channels. He tried to recall her name. Geary, he though. Rebecca Geary.
Jesus. I’ve done her show.
Brandon Kyle felt a wave of fear rush through him. Derek had assured him he did not look at all like himself, but what if he was wrong? What if this woman recognized him?
Yes, he’d shaved his head, grown a mustache. He’d decided, at the outset, that he wasn’t going with some stick-on facial hair that might blow off before he’d even reached the island. The only thing fake was the artificial padding around his middle, a cummerbund of phony fat. Brandon Kyle had a reputation as a fitness buff. Washboard stomach, broad-chested, not the sort of guy you’d expect to grow a beer belly overnight. He’d made sure, back in Gandalf’s good times, that all corporate videos had at least one clip of him jogging or skiing or jumping out of a plane. (Okay, so that last one had been doctored. There was no fucking way he was going to take up parachuting.)
And he’d even practiced a different voice to use today. He hailed from the South, but his parents had moved away from Mississippi when he was only four, and growing up in New England had done much to erase that drawl. But he could fall back into it easily. He’d just hear his father’s Southern gentleman voice in his head, and out it would spew from his own mouth. He always thought, talking in that Southern accent, it was like having a splash of bourbon on your tongue.
When he caught the woman’s eye, he decided to take a chance that his disguise was adequate, and said, “How are you today?”
Rebecca Geary smiled and nodded as she said, “Just great. Beautiful day. Especially considering we’re just getting into fall.”
“It is that,” he said. “Be a bit chilly on the way over, I suspect.” He cocked his head. “I believe I recognize you from the TV.”
She nodded. “The Geary Report. Rebecca Geary.”
“That’s right. Good show. Watch it all the time.”
“Heading over for the Arrival thing, like the rest of us?” she asked.
Big nod. “I am indeed.”
“Pain in the ass,” she said. “Not even letting us take a car. My cameraman’s carrying so much gear he’ll be in physio for a year.”
“I guess they’re pretty serious about keeping the island... pure, I guess would be the word.”
“I gather the only vehicles on the island that aren’t self-driving are emergency ones,” she said. “Arrival hasn’t yet got an autonomous ambulance. God, my manners. Who are you with?”