Summer smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth. “That’s one of June’s, right?”
Edison ran his trembling thumb over the center, tracing the contour of the Infinity Symbol. “Yes. In fact, she made it for me the Christmas before she, uh, passed. I thought it had been lost forever.” He turned to sit down in the chair next to the bed, his eyes filling with tears.
Morse locked eyes with Summer.
She seemed pleased with herself, apparently spinning the meeting to avoid answering any questions.
He flared his eyebrows at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Edison’s voice cracked when he said, “Thank you, Summer. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Especially today.”
“That’s one of the reasons I was late. I wanted to get you something special, on account of what today is.”
Edison choked back the emotion, then said, “Even though it was years ago, I still remember it like it was yesterday, June lying in my arms with those big, beautiful eyes looking up at me. I’ll never forget that last moment we shared together. She was in such pain, but she still found a way to make it not about her.”
“She was an amazing lady. I miss her so much,” Summer said, crying along with him. “What happened was so unfair. She deserved better.”
Even though Morse had joined Nirvana after June died, he could still picture the scene of her death in his head. Edison had told him the story on more than one occasion—usually on or around the anniversary of her death, like today.
June had been gunned down at the convenience store, trying to stop law enforcement from shooting a man who’d just robbed the place at gunpoint. At the time, some of the newspapers called June reckless; others labeled her a brave champion of the oppressed.
Morse wasn’t sure what to think. He could see both sides of the argument. However, one thing was clear, stepping between two armed camps was more than dangerous. It was deadly. Not only did June lose her life, so did the criminal and two of the police officers before the gun battle was over. In truth, nobody won.
Morse put a hand on Edison’s shoulder, squeezing it twice.
Edison looked up with tears flowing, sending Morse a ‘thank you’ look.
“It’s important to remember why she sacrificed herself,” Liz said. “For the good of the community. We all must rise to the occasion when trouble strikes, even if it means putting ourselves at grave risk.”
“A noble act, indeed,” Morse added, finally taking a side in the matter.
Liz changed her tone from one of compassion to more take-charge. “I think it’s time for everyone to get some sleep. Nirvana has a big day tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Edison answered, bringing his eyes to Summer. “Can you stop by my office in the morning? We need to have a little chat.”
“Uh, sure.”
“I’ll walk you back, Professor,” Morse said, waiting for his teary-eyed friend to stand.
Doctor Ben Lipton shot a momentary look at the door to his lab in Frost’s compound, as he continued stuffing his customized pack with the essentials he’d need. Essentials that included clothes, bottles of water, and a few hand tools.
A pistol was below all of that, one he’d liberated from the armory when nobody was looking. It was a .45 caliber semi-auto. Black, of course. The only color Frost’s men would carry.
He took a toothbrush from his pocket and tossed it in as well. The instant it came to rest inside, the door flew open with a swoosh. It smashed against the adjacent wall, driving the knob into the plaster. In walked two men, arm in arm, like old Army buddies, their heads leaning side-to-side on their thick necks.
Lipton slammed his pack shut, then spun around in front of it to conceal his activities. He wished just once that someone would knock. But they never did, elevating his hatred for this place to somewhere a hundred miles beyond the stratosphere.
The men stumbled inside, taking off-balance steps, bouncing off each other with mile-wide grins. One of them burped, sounding like he was purposely trying to extend its resonance.
The belch came from Sketch, the man who loved to doodle. “Hey Doc, this shit, it the bomb,” he slurred, holding up a pint of colorless moonshine. Some of it sloshed out of the glass, splashing the front of his sleeveless shirt.
Lipton was thankful this would be the last of the relentless pop-ins. “I’m glad you like it. But I need you both to run along now. Genius at work here.”
The other man, Dice, responded, his words a slurred mess of syllables and hiccups. “You really need to chill-lax, Doc. Come join us. Fletcher said that’s an order.”
“Oh, did he now?” Lipton answered, raising an eyebrow. He knew the men’s heads were spinning, meaning their focus wasn’t primed at the moment. Yet he didn’t dare take a step away from his pack. Even blockheads like these two might figure out what was happening.
Sketch let go of his pal’s shoulder, took a long, uncoordinated step toward the corner of the room, bent over, and heaved a stream of vomit at the floor.
“I love the smell of puke in the morning,” Dice said, laughing at his friend from behind.
Another round rose up from Sketch’s stomach and soiled even more of the floor. He remained bent over for a few more seconds, then he stood upright in a lean and wiped his mouth on his arm.
Sketch spun and teetered on his legs, raising the glass in a makeshift toast before taking another swig of the booze. When he returned to his teammate, his walk could only be described as belonging to a seasick, one-legged pirate.
They wrapped arms again, spinning themselves around unexpectedly, almost toppling over.
Lipton took advantage, moving forward to cross the room and put his hands on their backs. He nudged them in the direction of the entrance.
Dice swung his head around, his eyes glazed over. “You should come with us, Doc. It’s going to be biblical tomorrow.”
“No thanks. I think I’ll pass. I have other, more pressing plans,” Lipton said, escorting them outside. He slammed the door shut and took a step back, wishing he had a lock on the knob.
Seconds ticked by, then a minute as he waited for a second round of belch and vomit to return. When he was certain the men were gone, his eyes found their way to the brown chunks lying in the corner.
Normally, he’d call maintenance to remove the mess, then raise an issue with Frost about both the intrusion and the disgusting bile deposit, but there wasn’t time. Nor would it serve his immediate purpose.
Lipton returned to his backpack and finished his packing by stowing three of his most valuable notebooks inside. Each one contained revolutionary plans, written in code of course, none of which he thought he should ever attempt to build. Not around Frost or any of his men. No, what he had in mind needed a different type of leader and support group. One that didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.
When you work for a gang of lunkheads who can barely form a sentence, it’s essential that you keep your best ideas to yourself. More so when those ideas are experimental in nature and the man in charge is Simon Frost. Failure was never an option with him, even when the project was futuristic and not guaranteed of success. As a result, Lipton had adopted the motto of under-promise and over-deliver.
He figured his survival came down to three things: slow walking projects, stonewalling the results, and covering his mistakes with layers of technical mumbo jumbo. Words they’d never understand. Meanings that would obfuscate the truth. In layman’s terms, it was all about coverups and spin.
It’s how he kept himself safe from a brutal end. Well, that and playing the out-of-control, insolent scientist they all hated but couldn’t live without. The latter of which was clearly a sliding scale, depending on the success of the latest project.