Chapter Twenty-Four
I called the police from the vid-phone at the Cosmic Connection, leaving an anonymous message about Ellis’s body. His murder was weighing heavily on me, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than find out who’d blasted him. I wondered if Regan had gotten to him before the bullet. An unsettling thought occurred to me. No, I couldn’t believe that. Ellis wasn’t the first person to die in this chain of events and probably wouldn’t be the last.
I flew back to my office. It was late, and I figured I’d be better off with some sleep and a fresh start. I picked up some Chinese food on the way. When I got home, there was a message on my answering machine. I pushed the playback button and slumped into my chair with a box of Pan-fried noodles. Chelsea’s face appeared on the screen.
“Hey, handsome. How come you’re never there when I call? You’re not actually working, are you? Well, I just wanted to tell you that Phoenix is fun, but I miss home. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ll be back soon. I’ll buy you a drink, and we’ll compare scars. So, I guess that’s it. Bye!”
A slight twinge appeared in my stomach. For the first time in my adult life, the sensation had to do with romance, and not with fear, booze, or indigestion. With some irritation, I realised that I missed her. I’d been so busy the past couple days, I hadn’t had time to think about anything so trivial as women, but now that I thought about it, I was a little lonely. I took a hot shower and missed Chelsee even more.
As I lay in bed, floating into the Freudian abyss, I saw Regan and Chelsea, standing like sentinels in a vast desert landscape. Regan’s auburn hair nestled around her flawless face, her eyes deep and dark, her slender arms extending toward me. Chelsea was like the sun, golden and smiling, her hands resting on her narrow hips. Then, like wraiths emerging from the mist, faces appeared behind Regan. First Fitzpatrick, then Malloy, then Ellis. With a feeling of regret welling up inside me, I turned back to Chelsea, and she was alone. Her warmth reached out to me, and I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, I was lying on a beach. My grandmother was blocking the sun, lecturing me on drinking straight out of the milk jug. I’d lost my dog, and Paul McCartney appeared, wearing a sombrero over a sequinned gown with lavender pumps, trying to sell me life insurance. The pan-fried noodles had taken over.
The flight to British Columbia the next day was nothing if false scenic. The Great North West was still one of the least developed areas in the country. A set the speeder on autopilot and tried to think for brilliant plan that would get me into Elijah Witt stronghold. Everything I’d heard about the man indicated that he was a recluse of titanic proportions. They also had an inkling that he was probably on the upside of well-2-2. My experience in the PRI business had taught me the money plus reclusive must generally resulted in expensive alarm systems and nearly impenetrable security.
Not that I didn’t enjoy a challenge. But something told me that I’d have to need wait head on. Now I just had to come up with an utterly convincing, possibly endearing life. By the time I reached rich field, I had a few mediocre ideas, but nothing I felt particularly comfortable with.
A sign at the City limits probably welcomed me into the warm and indus-trious arms of 18,611 played-wearing lumberjacks. The hamlet of rich field was a 3-dimensional postcard, complete with a pint-size main street and quaint shops with names like mossy oaks.
Wits address was a post office box, which wasn’t going to do me any good. His house was somewhere in the vicinity, but I wasn’t about to canvass the entire town. Maybe if I knew which made the had he lived in, I could fall back on my old missionary to skies. Unfortunately, I’d left my pamphlets and glassy eyed look at back at the office. I’d have to locate wits place some other way.
I’ve never lived in a small town, but it was enough re-runs of the Andy Griffith Show to win it. And, as any experienced watcher of the show knows, anything worth hearing passes through the town barber shop. I glanced into my rear-view mirror and decided I needed a trim anyway. As I flew in slowly over Main Street, a revolving red and white striped barber poll stood out like a lighthouse beacon in front of a tiny building on the far end of the street. The sign above the door said it alclass="underline" Fred’s.
I parked my speeder and climbed out. A group of children stood at a safe distance, the faces looking as though they’d just seen Godzilla tromping over a nearby hill. At first, I thought they might be awestruck by my fedora, seeing as how it was a hand with no ear flaps. On further consideration, however, I realise that there were no other speeders on the street. All the vehicles were the old fashioned earthbound types. As far as the kids knew, I wasn’t terrible alien, come to have my hair cut before destroying the town and abducting them to take back my home planet.
A bell tinkled as I opened the door. Entering Fred’s barbershop was like entering a Norman Rockwell hologram. A fiftyish, bespectacled gentleman, whom I took to be Fred, was meticulously trimming the borders of an elderly man’s bald spot. Fred was sporting a standard issue white jacket over a white shirt and a tie with a knot the size of an eight ball. His hair was lacquered back with a hearty helping of Brylcreem, and his pencil-thin moustache was trimmed to a fault.
Besides Fred and the gent in the chair, two ancient checker players were plying their trade in the corner, and a cigar-smoking fat man was reading Hunter’s Weekly. A younger man sat with a nervous-looking little boy, who was probably being initiated into the Fellowship of the Barbershop Lodge.
I took a seat in the corner, removing my hat and smiling in a neighbourly fashion at the thirteen eyes watching my every move. One of the checker players wore an eye patch. Fred was the first to lose interest and return to his client. The only sounds in the place were the snipping of scissors and the plunking of checkers. My smile hadn’t lost any of its lustre, but it didn’t seem to be working. I decided to make the first move. “This sure is a beautiful town.”
The silence in the barbershop was as thick as the goo in Fred’s hair. And after what seemed to me to be an awkward silence, Fred spoke without looking up. “New around here, aren’t ya?”
“Yeah. This is my first time in Richfield. I’m from San Francisco.”
“Come all the way up here for a trim?”
I laughed, probably a little too loudly. “No. Just came up to visit a friend of mine.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
“Elijah Witt.”
Fred stopped snipping. Everyone in the room was looking at each other, like they were trying to figure out who’d just made that awful smell. Apparently, I’d tripped a local land mine. Fred was a cool customer. After a slight hesitation, he resumed snipping. “So, how do you know Mr Witt?”
This seemed like a good time to test my first falsehood. “I was one of his students at Berkeley. Thought I’d pay him a visit, since I was in the area. Unfortunately, I’ve never been here before. I’m not sure how to find him.”
The fat cigar smoker gave me a suspicious leer. “Seems kinda dumb to come for a visit when you ain’t got the address. How’d that happen?”
My brain was clicking like lobster claws. “Well, I wanted to surprise him. We haven’t seen each other for at least fifteen years.”