Messages Read online

  Sharon slid her plate away. “What strikes me is, you started getting these, these––messages the same day Brandon died.”

  David felt a chill run down his back. He hadn’t thought of that––and he wished Sharon hadn’t either. The thought of a dead relative watching his every move made him uncomfortable, to say the least.

  “Do you feel anything when you see the words? Do you hear the words out loud?” Ben asked.

  “No. It’s not a voice, it’s a sense, like déjà vu.” His brows furrowed. “It’s probably just some latent mental ability or...” He looked up at the wall clock. “Oh! I have to go! They’re expecting me down at the courthouse.” He stood and took the last gulp of his coffee. “I can’t believe how fast this morning flew by.”

  “Are you sure you should go in? Don’t you think you should try to figure out what’s going on first?” Sharon stared at her husband.

  “Competition is fierce for those full-time positions at the station.” David set his cup in the sink. “I need to stay on top of things. Besides, It’s only half a day, and I need to be downtown anyway to get Alex. I’ll call you if anything happens. Okay?”

  Sharon sat with her lips pursed.

  David looked at the kids. “Be good for Mom, alright?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Emily pushed her chair out. “I’m going to go look for words in my room. Maybe that’s my superpower too.”

  David watched her shuffle out of the kitchen in her rumpled pjs and tangled hair, then turned to his wife. “Call me if you get overwhelmed.” He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll come home if you need me.”

  “Okay.” Her hand gripped his wrist. “Call me if anything happens. I know how guarded you can be when you’re struggling with something.

  “I will, honey. I promise.”

  Chapter 6

  By the time David arrived at the courthouse, it was already mobbed. Police barricades blocked off traffic to the street in front, a barrier was set up to hold back the crowd of spectators that was forming, and reporters milled around at a calculated distance from the doors––like piranha waiting for a feeding.

  On the blocked-off street were several news trucks, including the one for Channel Seven. David pulled up to a police checkpoint and flashed his press pass. The officer squinted at it then waved him through. David rolled in carefully and double parked next to the big white truck.

  There were quite a few pedestrians on the street for such a cold autumn morning. David stuck close to the car and worked his way around to the truck. He found the thin metal door and rapped his knuckles on it.

  A head poked out from the dimly glowing guts of the news truck. It was the notorious switch operator and technician, Jeffery Nord, nicknamed Nerd by his coworkers. He was six feet and lanky, with green eyes and tousled orange hair that, quite frankly, made him look like a troll pencil. Anyone else would have found the title Nerd demeaning, but not Nord. He wore it like a badge of honor.

  Nerd hovered in the tiny doorway, waving a thick pencil in front of David, like a security wand. “Boop.”

  David raised his eyebrows. “Um. Hey there, Nerd.”

  “Boop.”

  David craned his neck to look over Nerd’s shoulder. “You the only one here?”

  Nerd ignored the question and continued on as though his pencil joke was going well. “Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. No flesh eating viruses detected.” He laughed a breathy laugh.

  David gave a half smile.

  Nerd pulled back into the truck and took a seat in the switcher’s chair, which he perceived as the captain’s chair of his little rolling Enterprise. “Brad and John are in front of the courthouse waiting for the Senator to come out.” Nerd pointed to a television monitor at Brad Knight, Channel Seven’s premier field reporter, going over notes on his PDA.

  “What do they want me to do?” said David.

  “I guess they want you to shadow me, kinda see how things work behind the curtain.”

  Oh how fortunate, David thought, to learn at the feet of the Great and Powerful Oz! He sat down at the only other seat in the truck. It was next to the device that puts words and graphics on the screen. “What’s this thing called?” he said, pointing at it.

  “That is a character generator.”

  “Oh.” David looked around at the mass of video electronics, rows of flashing lights, and plastic push buttons. His eyes came to rest on a box of doughnuts, and he suddenly became aware that he had never eaten his breakfast. His belly gurgled. I wonder if there are any glazed left? He tipped the cover and peeked inside. Yes! One left. Things were beginning to look up! He reached into the box, but his hand froze. An orange sticky-note hung just above the lid. Scribbled in pencil were the words, “Good and Working.” Two letters stood out, G and o.

  No! Not again! Go where? Out of the truck? NOW? His pulse quickened. This was nuts. He couldn’t just drop what he was doing every time a message came. Yet, he couldn’t ignore it. Maybe something horrible was about to happen to the truck! Again his pulse spiked.

  Nerd, thoroughly engrossed in his preparations for the broadcast, tapped at his keys and examined the readouts. David’s eyes dropped to a hammer on the console. On it was a metal label with the words in/out. The word out screamed at him.

  He sprang to his feet. “I have to step out for a second.” The sentence was rushed, but Nerd didn’t seem to notice.

  “Don’t take too long. It could start, then you’ll miss everything.” Nerd continued to study his equipment.

  “Yeah. Okay,” David fumbled with the latch and opened the door. Light bit into his eyes as he stepped back out onto the sidewalk. He took a look around. There didn’t appear to be any danger. More spectators had joined the throng in front of the courthouse, all waiting for a chance to see the Senator whose name had been topping the headlines for the last three weeks. Dread boiled in David’s chest at a single troubling thought. Is something going to happen to the Senator?

  Several doors opened, a delegation poured from the building, and the sea of waiting reporters surged forward like a tide encircling the emerging group. David felt helpless, transfixed on the scene, as he waited in horror for the next instruction to come.

  A young man with white cords protruding from his ears brushed past, causing David to step back. He glanced briefly at the man, and immediately his eyes were drawn to the back of his red tee-shirt. “Follow me as I follow Him.” David had no idea what the cryptic message meant, but it didn’t matter. The word follow soaked into his mind.

  Perspiration chilled on David’s forehead as he began moving through the crisp morning air, and short, nervous breaths shot from his mouth in thin white puffs. To his right, reporters fired off questions like hungry wolves chewing on a carcass, but the man in the red shirt paid no attention. He maneuvered along the sidewalk, dodging back and forth, lost in his own private concert.

  David followed, stealing glances to his right, but quickly returning his focus to the man in the red shirt. A woman with a dog cut him off, but he compensated and passed between two men on the left, pushed past another man in a business suit, and caught up.

  The man skirted the outside edge of the crowd, stepping in time to his own rhythm, weaving in and out of the gathered onlookers. David trailed him with pensive intensity, afraid to continue, but more afraid to stop. He pressed on past the crowd, away from the Senator. This doesn’t make sense! Why is he moving away? He stopped and looked around in a panic. Had he missed something? There were words everywhere, but nothing spoke to him. He twisted back toward the truck. Nothing but silence. Was he supposed to continue following this man? Was the Senator not the target?

  Brandon, if this is you, buddy, throw me a bone here.

  He turned back and saw the man a considerable distance away now. He broke into a sprint, pushed his way past a group of boys, and sidestepped around a woman with a stroller. The man was now at a crosswalk. David kept his eyes trained on the red shirt. The man crosse
d the street then turned and disappeared into a coffee shop. David dashed to the entrance, almost plowing into a couple trying to exit. He gave them a look of apology, and squeezed past.

  The coffee shop was small and quaint, and unexpectedly quiet in contrast to the throng of activity outside. At one table, a little wrinkled man read a newspaper while chewing on a bagel. Three people were standing in line, the last being the man in the red shirt. David stepped in behind him, sweaty, and out of breath. Now what? He felt horribly conspicuous. No one knew his reason for being there, but he felt like it was painted across his forehead. I’m only here to follow this guy because his shirt told me to!

  The line grew smaller, and David had no plan. He scanned the room, letting his eyes bounce off words, but only a string of nonsense appeared. Great! I’m stuck in a stupid coffee shop while right next door a famous Senator is creating a media frenzy! HELLO! The line reduced again, the man in the red shirt was at the counter now, and David was next. He snatched up a menu and bounced his eyes back and forth. Nothing.

  I followed the man in the shirt! Where are you? What am I supposed to do?

  The man clutched the top of his to-go bag and brushed past. David did not make eye contact. He stepped forward and looked up at the menu. His eyes were drawn to a big yellow 3 in a blue circle on top of the kids’ section.

  “May I help you, sir?” said the young gum-chewing blond behind the counter.

  “Yes, I’ll take three, ah, coffees.” He stole a glance behind him to see the man still standing in the entrance. He was looking at business cards on the cork board. David looked back at the blond.

  “That will be five dollars and thirty-five cents,” she said with a couple of quick chews.

  David pulled out a ten and slid it across the counter, then glanced back over his shoulder. The man was gone! He pushed away from the counter and looked out the windows. Where’d he GO? David burst through the door and looked back toward the courthouse, then ran around the other side of the coffee shop.

  He was gone.

  David wiped his face with his hands. How could he lose him? I only turned away for a second! He stood in the crosswalk, turned left, then right, then left again. It was no use.

  The crosswalk sign changed, it said, “WALK.” Another message? He crossed the street and stopped in front of a large glass window. On it, written in yellow paint, were the words IT Consultant, and Come In, We’re Open.

  His mind grabbed the words Open and IT and pulled them together.

  He stood and stared. Open what?

  He turned his head and spotted a heavily bearded man playing guitar with fingerless gloves. Next to him, his guitar case sat open with a few wadded bills in its belly. The case was already open. That wasn’t it. He turned around. And around again. Open WHAT! Behind him was a bench, shoved between the slats was a magazine. David walked forward, snatched it, and opened it. He scanned up and down the first two pages. Nothing. He turned to the back. Nothing there either.

  What now?

  He sat down and turned to the center of the magazine. There was nothing special about the glossy pages, nothing stood out. Am I doing something wrong? Why do I keep losing the trail? Is there some kind of method I’m missing?

  Maybe I’m just trying too hard.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then refocused on the magazine. “Two Killed with Car Bomb,” said one headline. “The President to Stop in Turkey to Meet With Makhim Alad Rheen,” said another.

  He tried to relax, and allowed his eyes to scan. Two words popped out. The. President.

  Okay––now we’re getting somewhere.

  He continued to scan... will... die.

  David shoved the magazine from his lap and stood. “I don’t want to know this!”

  An old lady passing by gave him a stern look, but he hardly noticed her.

  I don’t want to know this! This is NOT happening. I don’t WANT to know! He paced back and forth next to the clump of magazine. Why? Why me? Why did you choose me? I’m nobody! David hovered over the magazine. His mind was on fire. If I DO this... If I DO this... If I read this message, can I turn back? Can I walk away? A sense of futility washed over him. Clearly, he had no control over the messages. It didn’t matter what he did, they would find him. And if he did try to stick his head in the sand, he might end up dead. Or worse.

  He groaned, crouched down, and snatched the magazine off the sidewalk. Whatever they were, they had saved his life and the life of his neighbor. For all he knew, death was waiting around the corner, even now, in any one of the many varieties found in the big city. Being in the good graces of the author of the messages was certainly better than the alternative. He sat back down and opened the magazine. Okay, David. Relax. Just relax. His eyes fell on the word in, the number 2, and finally on the word days. The words tumbled in his mind, then rearranged themselves to form a new sentence.

  In 2 days, the President will die.

  His eyes flitted to the byline and grabbed three more words in quick succession. Stop, the, killer.

  David stared in stunned disbelief. Save the President? Of the United states? Saving his next-door neighbor was one thing, but he couldn’t even begin to wrap his brain around this one. I’m no hero. I’m an intern––not even a fully functioning member of the workforce! How am I supposed to save the President of the United States?

  He laid the magazine down and rubbed his temples. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is NOT happening... There must have been a clerical mistake somewhere. He was so obviously not the guy for the job! And what was he going to tell Sharon? “Um, honey, I have to go to Washington for a few days. The President’s gonna die, and I’m supposed to save him. –Oh, and I’ll be charging it to our VISA. You’re okay with that, right, honey? Honey? What are you doing with that knife?” Yup. That was how it was going to go down. She’d think he was crazy, and he would have to agree with her.

  He stood and threw the magazine into a nearby trash can. There was no plan, no next step, just a directive. And that wasn’t enough for David. Until the messages chose to give him more, he decided he was going to sit on the information; his present situation was going to be hard enough to deal with. After all, he had just walked off his job site to chase supernatural messages. How was he going to explain that one?

  David headed back across the street and toward the truck, playing through all the scenarios in his head. In each one he ended up looking like a nut case, no matter how he spun it. Mental dysfunction was definitely not the way to endear oneself to a potential employer. It would be infinitely easier if I could just lie. But he would not do that. He’d seen the destruction lying had wrought in his father’s life, and he’d promised himself long ago that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father.

  The coffee! He stopped in his tracks. Maybe I’m supposed to get coffee. What had appeared as a trivial detour now made perfect sense. He turned, bolted back to the coffee shop, and strolled in through the door. He gave a smile to the blond behind the counter.

  “Thought you took off,” she chewed.

  “Sorry about that.”

  She grabbed the tray and slid it across the counter, then handed him his change.

  “Thanks.”

  She gave a robotic smile. “Don’t mention it.”

  David grabbed a handful of creamers and sugar packets on his way out, then headed back toward the truck. As he neared, he held the coffees strategically out in front of him. The three men standing there didn’t notice him at first, until he was right up on them.

  “Chance. Where ya been?” said John.

  “Coffee?” said David.

  Nerd scrunched his face. “You completely missed the broadcast. We went live and Brad got an interview with the Senator. I was feeding video, running the switch, and punching up Chyron all at the same time.”

  “I wasn’t gone long.” He held the coffee tray out. Each of them grabbed a cup.

  Brad smiled. “The urge to fetch coffee was jus
t too strong for ya, huh?”

  “I am your humble intern.” David returned the smile.

  “Well,” said Brad, “we’re heading out to film a piece for the art show, then we’ll head back to the station to go over the afternoon game plan. You going to meet us at the show?”

  “If you need me, but I’m only on for half a day, right? I have to pick up a friend at Logan.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Hey, this is turning out to be a busy day, and you’d probably find yourself shoved in a corner anyway. Look. Why don’t you just take off? We’ll pick up on Monday when things have died down a bit.”

  “You sure? I can...”

  “Yeah. You’ve been busting your hump the past couple of weeks. You deserve it. So go before I change my mind.”

  “Alright. Thanks, Brad. I owe you one. See you guys on Monday.” David set the cardboard tray in a nearby trash can and went around to his car. He had two hours until he had to pick up Alex. What am I going to do for two hours?

  One thing was certain, he did NOT want to look at any more words!

  Chapter 7

  David stabbed the elevator button and stepped back. The ring around the button glowed yellow. An arrow on the wall indicated a downward moving elevator. He didn’t know which one, so he placed himself strategically in front of the three doors and waited.

  A heavy-set man rounded the corner, stood for a second, then reached forward and hit the already glowing button. David gave the man a cordial smile, although privately, he wondered what made people do that. Did it come from an overwhelming desire to appear busy in the presence of strangers, or was it a lack of trust between the individual and the glowing button?

  Ding. The middle elevator opened. Four people stood inside. One of them David recognized, an Arabic man who lived around the corner from him. He was of average height, had a muscular build, and rich bronze skin. Seeing the man caused a pit in David’s gut. Although he would never admit it, the man made him uneasy––and his suspicion wasn’t completely unfounded. He lived on the low traffic intersection at the end of David’s Street. Often, when David waited at the intersection, he found himself not ten feet from the man, who frequently sat on his steps. With all the hysteria about Muslims and terrorism, David had made a conscious effort to smile at the man. It was his way of saying, I don’t believe all Arabs are the same, and I trust that you don’t want to blow me up. But for all the times he had made the effort, the man had never smiled back. Maybe David was making more of it than it was, but whether he liked it or not, the man made him nervous. He scanned David briefly with his dark mysterious eyes, and if he recognized him, he made no indication. The people exited one by one, and the Arab passed with downcast eyes and headed off down the corridor.