The Pandora Directive

Chapter Eighteen

I stepped out of the Cosmic Connection and lit up a much-needed smoke. Leaning against my speeder, I inhaled deeply. My mind reeled, trying to sort out all the information acquired over the past few days. It was like trying to stuff a marshmallow into a piggy bank.

I tried to arrange the details chronologically. OK, first an alien spacecraft crashed at Roswell. The military moves in, confiscates the wreckage, and convinces the media that it was all a misunderstanding. Everything is taken to a secret complex near Roswell, where it’s analysed unsuccessfully for years. Malloy joins Project Blueprint and works on deciphering the alien symbols. Eventually, technology catches up, making it possible for the military to figure out some of the alien equipment, in particular an advanced particle accelerator. Our boys in the Pentagon figure out how to use it to build a better bomb, only it turns out to be a very bad bomb. We win the war, but lose the ozone. Project Blueprint is shut down; Malloy is transferred to Peking, where he spends the remainder of his career translating manuals and continuing his research on the alien symbols in his spare time.

So far, so good. Now it gets a little murkier. Malloy eventually has a breakthrough. He is now, apparently, the first and only Earth creature to read an extraterrestrial communication. So what does he do? He retires, comes back to the States, goes to Berkeley, and starts building something called the Pandora Device. He then disappears, surfacing only to give an interview to a crackpot. A short time later, he sends out at least three, earth may be more boxes, which no one seems to know how to open. Then he’s gunned down, seemingly by the NSA.

This thread got me from point A to point B Unfortunately, it didn’t really account for much of the peripherals. What was Malloy’s association with Fitzpatrick? How did Elijah Witt fit into things? How was the murder of Sandra Collins linked to Malloy?

Then, of course, there were the highest priority questions. What was the message in the alien symbols? What was in the boxes? How many boxes were sent, and where were they?

My head felt like a vid-phone booth crammed full of fraternity pledges. I needed a stiff drink and a soft mattress. I got back to the Brew & Stew just as Louie was closing up shop. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

“Hiya, Murph’. You got in just under the wire. Gonna have a nightcap. Want a brandy?”

I slipped off my overcoat and tossed my fedora on to the counter. “I only drink brandy when I play bridge. That is to say, never.”

Louie laughed. “Okay, sue me for trying to introduce some culture into your life.”

He reached under the counter and presented me with a full bottle of bourbon and a fancy crystal sipping a glass. I grabbed the top of the bottle and twisted, hearing the faint popping sound and the sigh of virgin whisky ready to fulfil his destiny. A glass of bourbon and a well packed Lucky Strike. Throw in a good night’s sleep and a decent haircut, and I’d be in bliss.

Louie reached over and lit my cigarette. “Looks like you had a long day.”

I carefully blew a long stream of smoke away from his big, lumpy face. “How can you tell? Don’t I usually look like this?”

“Pretty much. Your eyes are just real bloodshot.”

“You think they look bad. You should see them from this side.” It must have been all the damn incense. And Ellis didn’t want me smoking in his place.

Louie and I sat drinking in silence for a few minutes. I was dog-tired. When we finished our drinks, Louie turned out the light, and we headed up to hit the hay. This time, I got to sleep in the torture device. After a surprisingly decent sleep and a double Armageddon, I went to work on Louie’s Vid-phone. Checking in with Fitzpatrick, I learned that he hadn’t had any luck opening either of the boxes. I then called Regan and arranged to meet her at the Imperial Lounge. She seemed to have recovered from our previous conversation and was back to her former self. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

I returned to my seat at the counter and picked up the first edition of the Bay City Mirror. It was still pretty early, and I really wasn’t in a hurry, so I decided to do the crossword. I took a sip of Armageddon and found the puzzle. After twenty minutes, three cigarettes, and a refill on the Joe, I filled in a grand total of five answers. I don’t know why I like puzzles. All they ever do is make me feel like an idiot.

My eyes wandered over the page. Below the crossword was an anagram puzzle. I never did those — they were too much work. Suddenly, I remembered what Ellis had said about Elijah Witt, how he always used an anagram as a pen name. I pulled out the paperbacks from my overcoat pocket. Sure enough, the author of There are Messages from Outer Space was J.I. Thelwait. The letters could be rearranged to make Elijah Witt.

Immediately I was curious. I picked up the second book, Puzzles to Amuse and Challenge, and looked in the table of contents. Finding a section devoted entirely to anagrams, I saw that Malloy had solved all of them. I flicked through the rest of the book; he’d skipped everything else.

I had a hunch. According to Ellis, Witt and Malloy were in touch with each other. Both were interested in anagrams. I opened the cover of Witt’s book. The inside title page had been torn out. I ran my finger over the first page and felt some markings. After getting a pencil from Louie, I lightly traced over the first page. Letters began to appear, some in words, others in apparently random order. When I finished, there was no complete answer, but it was obvious that Malloy had been attempting to make an anagram out of the title There are Messages from Outer Space.

With reckless optimism, I tried my hand for awhile, but I realised within minutes that I was accomplishing nothing. I put the paperbacks away and turned back to the newspaper. Lucas Pernell’s byline caught my attention. The piece dealt with the history of local government corruption. An idea hit me like a blind-side haymaker. The Bay City Mirror produced its own puzzles. I was willing to bet that they were generated by some kind of computer program. I also had a gut feeling that Malloy’s anagram of There are Messages from Outer Space was going to end up being important. And I just happened to know someone who worked at the Bay City Mirror.

I fished out Lucas Pernell’s card and punched in the number. After several minutes, I got Pernell on the line. “Just read your article in today’s Mirror. Good stuff.”

He sounded equally annoyed and flattered. What’s up, Murphy? I’m pretty busy.”

“Can we talk? I mean now, over the phone?”

Pernell gave me a scrutinising look. “Important?”

“I’d like to think so.”

He checked his watch. “You know where. The first place. Half an hour.” I beat Pernell to the Twilight Lounge by five minutes. On the flight over, I’d thought of something else I needed to ask about. I didn’t know how often he spoke to Mac Malden, but I needed to contact Mac as discreetly as possible and find out what he knew about the NSA — specifically, what they were doing about me.

Pernell threw his hat and coat into the booth and slid in. “Got an extra bad boy?”

I pushed my pack of Lucky Strikes across the table. Pernell pulled one out and leaned over as I lit my ex-cigarette. He slumped behalf against the back of his seat and exhaled through his nose. “What’s up?”

I packed a smoke of my own. “You want a bourbon?”

Pernell flashed a hint of a cynical smile. “Oh, this must be good.”

I caught the waitress’s eye and signalled for two bourbons. It was still pretty early, but I figured it was happy hour somewhere.

“So… spill it.”

I smoked a cigarette and waited for our drinks to arrive. “You still working on the Black Arrow Killer story?”

Pernell nodded in mid-gulp. “Why? You got something?”

“I do. Maybe enough to help you wrap up the details.”

The reporter reached into his frayed sports jacket and pulled out a pen and notepad. He opened the pad, licked the tip of the pen, and looked up at me expectantly. “Let’s have it.”

I buried my cigarette stub into the ashtray. “Hold on. I need two favours. I’ll trade.”

Pernell was leery. “How good is your information?”

I smiled. “Remember the best sex you’ve ever had? This is better.”

The reporter grinned fiercely and drained his bourbon. “What do you want me to do?”

I pulled out There are Messages from Outer Space. “Ever heard of this?”

“Sure. It’s like a bible for UFO nuts.”

Everyone except me knew about this book. “I have reason to believe that someone made an anagram out of the title. I need to find a computer program that will check for all the possible anagrams.”

Purnell shrugged. “That’s easy enough. I know the guy who does the anagrams. I’m sure he can take care of things for you. I’ll give you a call when he’s had a chance to check it out. So what’s the other thing?”

“I’d need to contact Mac Malden.”

Pernell gave me a dopey look. “Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “Look, I’m in a little trouble with a certain powerful government agency. As far as I know, they’re staking out my office, and Mac seems to think his transmissions are being monitored. I haven’t slept in my apartment for two days. I have to contact Mac and see if he’s heard anything new.”

Pernell considered for a few moments. “That second thing, I’m not too excited about that. Tell you what — you give me some of the dope, and I’ll decide whether I want to shake on it.”

It seemed reasonable, and I didn’t really have much choice. I told Pernell about tracking down the Black Arrow Killer, up to the point where I followed him to the roof. I left out Emily’s name at the part about the box. When I finished, Pernell looked up at me like I was a ten-thousand dollar hooker who just said “Time’s up.”

“So then what happened? Did you find out who it was?”

I lit up a smoke. “Shall we give Malden a call?”

Clearly frustrated, Pernell reached into his jacket and pulled out a cellular vid-phone. He pressed a rapid dial button.

After a few seconds, I heard Mac’s familiar rasp. “What?”

Pernell covered the mouthpiece. “What do you want to ask him?”

“Ask if he’s heard anything recently about his old friend, who brought the woman and the cigarettes the last time they talked.”

Pernell repeated my message.

Mac had apparently forgotten. It took him a minute to catch the wave. “Oh, yeah, that useless bastard. I haven’t seen him for a while, but if you run into him, let him know that the bill collectors have backed off. They were pretty damn upset at first, but it looks like someone paid his bills for him. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that, for now, everything looks OK.”

Pernell answered. “All right, Malden. I’ll let him know if I see him.”

Why would the NSA have backed off? If the Feds were giving me some slack, they were probably just waiting until I wove enough rope to hang myself with. Having the NSA watching and waiting would be like having a bum ticker. Everything would be fine until the minute I dropped dead. But at least it gave me some breathing room.

Pernell pocketed his vid-phone. “Is that what you wanted to here?”

I took a drag of my smoke. “Yes and No. But I appreciate your help.”

He hunched over his notepad. “I’d send my grandmother up the river for a hot story.”

I gave him all the details: the struggle on the roof, the Black Avatar, Dag Horton’s name. For good measure, I even described my little trip to the NSA Office, and meeting the delightful Jackson Cross.

“I knew it!” Pernell was lit up like the resident floozy at an office Christmas party. “I was sure the NSA had their dirty paws all over this thing. With my connections, I’ll have this story on the front page in week.”

Under normal circumstances, I’d have been nervous about Purnell publishing the story. The NSA could easily put two and two together and come up with who the “anonymous source” of all the information was. But, for better or worse, I’d already offended the agency. Stepping on the metaphorical toes one more time shouldn’t make much difference.

I was about to get up when I remembered another detail Pernell could help me with. He was bent over his notebook, scribbling. I waited for him to finish. “You got a few more minutes to burn?”

“It will make me thirsty.”

I caught the barmaids eye and motioned for another bourbon. “You remember Sandra Collins?”

Pernell nodded impatiently. “Yeah. Berkeley.”

“Look… I won’t bother you with the details, but she figures into this whole mess. Do you know what she was doing at the University before she was murdered?”

A flicker of interest crossed Pernell’s face. He played with his empty glass, thoughtfully. “It’s been a while… she was hired to work as an assistant on some research project.”

He paused and looked up at the barmaid who’d arrived with his bourbon. He took a sip as I paid for the drink. The waitress walked away, and Purnell spoke softly, the glass halfway to his lips. “She was working with a guy named… it began with an M… Mann, Mathers, Matlin…”

He paused and took a drink.

“Malloy?”

Pernell shook his head with a mouthful of bourbon. I tried to think back. Fitzpatrick had said that Malloy was using an alias. What was it? Pernell looked apologetic. “It’s been a long time.”

I remembered. “Matthews? Tyson Matthews?”

Pernell snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “That’s it! Matthews. Anyway, Sandra Collins turned out to be at the top of her class in optical science. Holographic projectors, virtual-reality simulators, that sort of thing. That’s apparently how she got onto the project. It was just her and Matthews working together.”

“Did you ever talk to this Matthews guy?”

“No. He disappeared from the University a little but before the murder. I didn’t really try to track him down.”

Did any of the authorities find out if he was involved? Or if what Sandra was working on figured into the murder motive?”

Pernell finished off his drink. “Not that I know. For all the police knew, it was the Black Arrow Killer, open and shut. Apparently, the Feds treated it the same way.”

“Do you think that there’s anyone at the University who would know what Sandra and Matthew’s were working on?”

“No. I asked around. It was an airtight project, sanctioned by someone way up on the food chain.”

Pernell flashed a sneaky grin. “You got something interesting you want to tell me?”

I got up from the table. “Not today. Maybe sometime when I’m really broke and really thirsty.”