The Pandora Directive

Chapter Thirteen

Malloy was dead. A guilty voice in the back of my mind said that the NSA had followed me to the warehouse. As I guided my speeder over the city, I tried to think clearly. During our conversation, I’d learned something about the man and felt like I owed it to him to finish whatever it was he’d started. Unfortunately, I had no idea what it was.

I landed at a convenience store and went in to buy a couple packs of cigarettes. Malloy had just been gunned down, and I’d barely escaped, but life went on, and I was out of smokes. I slid back into the driver’s seat and decided that my next move should be back to the Garden House. That would be the last place anyone would expect to find me, even if I’d been followed from there in the first place. I wanted to get Malloy’s things. Maybe I’d find a clue as to why someone wanted him dead. My only concern was that maybe the bad guys had gotten there first.

I parked the speeder and walked to the front door of the boarding house. My knock was answered by the sweet little lady I’d met earlier.

“Back again?”

“Yes… we found Uncle Thomas. I came back to pick up his stuff.”

The plump woman stepped aside and let me in. “How is he? Is everything OK?”

She must have sensed that something was wrong. I tried to sound positive. “Sure. Everything’s fine.”

I didn’t think it would be appropriate to tell her that Malloy had been blasted into hamburger. I followed the woman up the stairs to the bedroom. She let me in and left. I looked around the room, realising that its contents might be the last earthly possessions of Thomas Malloy. An old watch lay on the nightstand. I picked it up and read an inscription on the back. It said: I love you Daddy.

I’d faced death before and had several people close to me die. It was never easy. I tried to be optimistic. Maybe Malloy had gone out the way he’d wanted to. He’d taken death like a man. His actions may have even saved my life. I thought of Shakespeare’s observation that a man dies once, but a coward dies a thousand times. Was I a coward for escaping? Shakespeare had also said that discretion is the better part of valour. It wouldn’t have done either of us any good if I’d been killed, too. Besides, I personally had never fancied the thought of going down on the wrong end of an automatic rifle. I’d always envisioned my death involving being smothered by a Jayne Mansfield Twin, but that was just another one of my twisted little secrets.

I opened the nightstand drawer and saw a pair of reading glasses, a copy of Reader’s Digest, and a wad of cash. The bills added up to about two thousand dollars — not a lot, but not chump change, either. I stuffed the bills into my pocket. I’d pay Malloy’s board and take the rest to Emily, along with any of Malloy’s stuff I couldn’t use. She probably appreciate the money, but it wouldn’t be much of a trade off. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her what had happened.

I found a suitcase under the bed and began throwing everything into it. One of the desk drawers contained two old, stained notebooks. I wanted to look them over but had to keep reminding myself that there would be time for that later.

Ten minutes later, I shut the door behind me and went down the stairs. Everything in the room had fit into the suitcase. The plump 5th landlady came up to meet me.

“Did you get everything?”

“I think so. It’s certainly will be good to get this whole situation straightened up.”

“I’m sure.” The little woman smiled pleasantly.

“Oh… nothing. He paid ahead through the end of the week.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “This is how much he overpaid.”

I patted her on the shoulder. “Please. I know Uncle Thomas would want you to keep it.”

She hesitated, then folded the bill back into her pocket. She reached out and took my free hand warmly. “Tell him thank you, and that he’ll always be welcome here. He’s such a very nice man.”

I nodded and turned to leave, then turned back. “Do you remember anyone else coming by here looking for on Uncle Thomas?” the woman thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I know of.” My speeder lifted off Valencia and hovered for a few moments. I wasn’t sure where I should go. My office sound like a bad idea. If the guys in masks had been NSA agents, they could have recognised me, and word might be getting back to Jackson Cross. Even if the hit squad hadn’t been NSA, I could be tracked down by the licence plate on my speeder. I was also carrying a recently murdered man’s belongings and didn’t want be apprehended by anyone, including the police. I had to go someplace safe, and fast. Almost automatically, I set course for Chelsee’s apartment.

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the door to Chelsee’s digsn. A note was taped to the door, my name written on the envelope. I pulled the envelope off the door and examined it. The flap was not stuck down, but tucked inside. It looked as though the envelope may have been sealed, then reopened. I pulled out a note from inside and read:

I slipped the note in my pocket and left. Now I had yet another thing to think about. It wasn’t fair. My brain was already sore. I needed a bourbon. I decided to risk a trip to the Brew and Stew.

The place was packed. Louie’s diner usually got the insomnia crowd. He stayed open until everyone went home and usually did a lot of business even after the sun came up. I was too beat to visit the Flamingo — the least that’s what I told myself. I’d leave the dirty work for tomorrow. Besides, I had a suitcase full of things to look through.

I stepped inside the Brew & Stew and breathed in the hearty scent of Louie’s famous lamb stew and fresh buttery biscuits. The place was jumping, and Louie was bustling around, face red and eyes bulging. Despite his bulk, he was a miracle of efficiency, filling coffee mugs, juggling plates, and remembering a dozen drink orders, all at the same time.

He also seemed to be moderately clairvoyant. I’d been standing at the door for only a few moments when Louie turned toward me. He looked me over, then pointed toward the kitchen. Firmly grasping the handle to Malloy’s suitcase, I stepped through the crowd and behind the bar like I owned the place. Louie held the swinging door open and ushered me into the heart of the Brew & Stew. The place was an olfactory factory. The smell of onions, garlic, cilantro, feta, sharp cheddar, fresh bread, and butter all mingled with the primary aroma of lamb stew and biscuits to create an almost visible culinary palate.

“It’s a little crazy out there, Murph. Sorry I don’t got a table for ya.”

“That’s OK, Louie. I really wasn’t hungry until I stepped in here.”

Louie flashed his big, toothy grin. “My diner seems to have that effect on people. I think it’s my gift in life. Have a seat. You want a drink?”

I nodded gratefully. “Bourbon, if you don’t mind.”

I sat down on a chair in the back corner. Louie ducked out of the kitchen and returned a minute later with a triple bourbon straight up. I took a deep swig and of felt better. “So… you need a place to stay tonight?”

I was caught off guard. How did Louie know?

“Sorry?”

He motioned toward the suitcase in my hand. “I figured they might have kicked you outta for your place.”

I laughed, a little nervously. “No… everything’s settled up at the Ritz.”

I thought for a second, then decided to confide. “I’m in kind of a jam right now. I shouldn’t go back to my office for awhile.”

Louie gave me a big grin. “Geez, Murphy. You know you can always crash here.”

“You don’t mind? It’d only be for tonight… well, maybe two nights.”

“No problem. Those stairs go right up to my apartment. There’s a couch up there that folds out. The place is kind of a mess, but make yourself a home.”

Louie turned to leave. “If you’re not ready to call it a night, come out to the bar. Or you can stay in here if you like.”

“Thanks, Louie.”

The big galoot waved me off and stepped out through the swinging door. Carrying the bourbon and Malloy’s suitcase, I walked up the stairs. Louie was one hell of a guy. Anyone else would have asked questions. Not Louie LaMintz. He was, however, a real slob. His apartment look like the aftermath of a Shriner’s convention, or like my office after the NSA had come to play. I cleared out a small area on the floor and sat down. After a long slug of bourbon, I opened Malloy’s suitcase and went to work.

After fifteen minutes, I turned up nothing more interesting in Malloy’s clothes that lint balls. Setting the clothing aside, I picked up one of the notebooks. It was filled with drawings of the strange symbols and incompre-hensible chicken-scratch liner notes. I flipped through it for several minutes, but someone would have to decipher it for it to be of any use to me. The other notebook seemed to be a journal, but the entries, like the liner notes in the first notebook, looked as though they’d been written in some kind of unintelligible shorthand. I’d need to find someone who could translate them, though who that would be, I didn’t know.

Next up were two old paperback books. The first was called There Are Messages from Outer Space, written by J I Thelwait. I opened it up, and a slip of paper fell out. Probably a bookmark. Malloy had only gotten to page 57. I picked up the slip of paper and read ASE_%_info@ccm.inet.com. the then I put the slip of paper back into the book and dropped it into my coat pocket.

The second book was titled Puzzles to Amuse and Challenge. At a quick glance, it looked like Malloy hadn’t done any of the puzzles. I slipped the book into my coat pocket, too. Puzzles were always a good way to kill time, though admittedly I didn’t foresee myself enjoying much free time in the immediate future. Malloy had had some other miscellaneous items, like a traveller’s alarm clock and a penknife, but none of them looked particularly important.

I emptied the suitcase, then turned to my bourbon and emptied the glass. Except for the unreadable notebooks and maybe the e-mail address, I felt like I’d come up empty. I had to be overlooking something. I turned my attention to the suitcase itself. After poking and prodding the interior for five minutes, I was pleased to discover a false panel. Using Malloy’s penknife, I pried it open. Inside, there was a small computer disk. I didn’t have a computer handy, so I stuck the disc in my pocket.

In the lining of the false panel, I discovered a small pocket. Reaching inside, I found several photographs. One was an old picture of a youthful-looking Malloy, in uniform. I flipped a photo over and saw the words Promotion — 1988. A second snapshot was a wedding picture, showing Malloy with a beautiful woman. An inscription on the back read: Wedding Day — April 5, 2007.

The next picture showed a newborn baby. There was nothing written on the back. The last picture showed Malloy, his wife, and a teenage girl. The young woman’s face looked familiar. I turned the photo over and read the inscription: Dad, Mum, Regan — 2028.

I sat back, stunned. The girl in the picture was Regan Madsen. It was a fairly old photo, but I was sure of it. She was Thomas Malloy’s daughter.

I thought back and ran through my conversation with her. Nothing in what she’d said would indicate her relationship to the dead man. I wondered why. What was her angle? Was she trying to find her father? Was she working with him or against him?

Too many questions and no answers. She and I needed to have a little chat.

I found Ms Madsen card, with the number handwritten on the back. A vid-phone sat on a stand by Louie’s bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I punched in the code.

A bland female voice answered. “Imperial Inn. How may I direct your call?”

“I’m trying to reach Regan Madsen.”

“Is she a guest?”

“I suppose so.”

“One moment.”

I listened to dead air for a few seconds, then an annoying beeping sound. After about thirty seconds the beeping stopped, and the bland voice was back again. “There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”

I wasn’t sure where I was going to be for the next few days. “No. I’ll try back later.”

It was late, and I’d had a full day. As I disconnected the Vid-phone, I suddenly couldn’t keep my eyes popped open. I laid back on the bed, intending to rest for a few minutes.