Perpetual Motion (27 page)

Only an alien spaceship would have looked
more of out of place against the pre-historic landscape of dirt,
rocks and cactus. As the Nova weaved its way over, Cynical saw a
loading ramp being lowered from the underbelly of the fuselage.
When he got a little closer, he made out two figures walking down
the ramp.

Deciding to give his audience a little show,
he accelerated, tuning up the engine and letting it sing. To get to
the runway, the Nova had to go off-road, leaping and frolicking
like a colt sowing it oats. Finding the landing strip, it regained
its footing and shot forward with the ease of a champion
stallion.

Nearing the plane, he saw Mancuso standing
beside his associate, Herman, who was clad in white coveralls.
Coming to a sliding stop a few feet in front of the men, Cynical
put the car in park and left it running. When he opened the door
and hobbled out, Mancuso’s elated expression gave way to
concern.

“Are you all right?” he asked, alarmed at the
sight of the x-detective’s condition.
“Oh, yeah,” Cynical said, looking down at the clotted mess on his
shoulder and blood drenched upper thigh; not even realizing the cut
above his left eye was the most gruesome of all. “I’m fine,” he
reassured him, wiping at his red streaked face.

Taking his word for it, Mancuso shifted his
attention to the car, where Herman was already in the process of
raising the hood. As soon as the hood was up, the two men looked
into the engine; absorbed with MARI’s smoothly running
electro-magnetic machinery. Meanwhile, Cynical stood a few feet
away, trying not to keel over in the sun.

After a few moments of pointing and muttering
between the two men, Mancuso glanced back at Cynical. “While we get
this loaded, why don’t you go up and have Mia look at your
wounds.”

“Am I going with you?” Cynical asked.

“How else are you going to get home?” Mancuso
replied.

He had been so consumed with completing the
job; Cynical hadn’t even considered how he was going to get back to
LA. Before he could respond, Mancuso was back under the hood,
conferring with Herman in hushed whispers.

Slowly, Cynical took the steps of the plane
one by one. At the top of the retractable staircase, an Asian woman
in a snappy blue business suit was waiting for him.

“Welcome Mr. Jones,” the pretty woman said.
Rising from her slight bow, she couldn’t hide an expression of
surprise.

“Oh, I got shot a couple of times,” Cynical
said modestly. “Mr. Mancuso said you could take a look at me.”

Before he could finish the sentence, Mia was
already inspecting the damage with a frown that creased her
delicate features. “Please follow me,” she said, leading him
through the large luxurious living room he had met with Mancuso
in.

At the back wall, Mia opened a discrete
paneled door and, taking him by the hand, showed him into a narrow
hallway where there were three more doors. Opening one of the side
doors, she invited him to enter a compact bedroom. Mia directed him
to the bed.

“Please undress Mr. Jones. I’ll be back in a
moment.”

When Mia closed the door, Cynical began
peeling off his clothing, deciding to stop at his boxers. They had
just met after all.

Sitting back on the bed, he preferred not to
look at his damage. Instead, he stared out the window at a swatch
of brown dirt. Closing his eyes, he drifted for what seemed like
only a few sands through the hourglass before a gentle knock
reawakened him.

Mia entered holding a tray with a metallic
bowl and an assortment of surgical instruments. After placing the
tray on the bedside table, she sat down on the edge of the bed and
produced a couple of pills and a bottle of water. “Take these,” she
ordered.

Cynical downed the pills, chasing them with
the water.

Turning on a lamp, Mia focused her attention
on his bloodied, bruised body.

“What now?” he asked helplessly.

“Now, you will go to sleep and I will go to
work,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’m Mr. Mancuso’s nurse,” she said as if
that outranked a mere MD. With a reassuring smile, she gently
stroked his hand. Besides being a flight attendant and personal
nurse, he wondered what else Mia did for the old man.

“You go to sleep now,” he heard her say.

As the last twenty four hours collided with
the barbiturates, Cynical started fading fast. Vaguely, he was
aware of the ramp’s motor whirling underneath him; the roar of
engines and the hum of the plane enveloping him. This was followed
by a rough patch as they jostled along the hard ground before
finally breaking free into space.

And then he was back in the magical car,
racing along invisible currents in the sky. He could see himself.
It was as if his spirit was hovering like ether over his old,
broken body. All the while, an angel knelt over him, tending to his
wounds, stitching him back together. He was in a better place now,
maybe not too far from heaven.

Waking up, Cynical was momentarily lost to
his strange surroundings. Once he saw the porthole by his bed, the
memories began to rush back: boarding the jet and being operated on
by Mia, driving the magnet powered car through the desert, being
shot at by the banshee from Black Starr, the rushed meeting with
Michael at Ed’s Garage.

Beyond the window was only darkness. How long
he’d been asleep? It felt like a long stretch. LA would have been
an up and down flight…So why were they still in-the-air?

As he tried to get up, twinges of discomfort
came from multiple locations on his body. Peeking under the sheets,
he took inventory of the white bandages that covered an assortment
of leaks he had recently sprung. Peeling up the closest patch on
his shoulder revealed a row of tight stitches. Mia had done a nice
job.

A thick white robe hung off the back of the
bedroom door. Hobbling over, he wrapped the fluffy material around
his naked body. It was so soft it felt like he’d slipped into a
Cumulus cloud. Stepping into two slippers that had also been
provided, he exited the room and proceeded to limp down the empty
hallway.

Opening the door at the end of the short
hall, he entered the homey living room atmosphere with subdued
lighting and light classical music tinkling from unseen speakers.
All that was missing was a crackling fireplace. Spotting a smooth
head jutting out over the top of the couch, Cynical cleared his
throat to alert his host to his presence.

The bald pate turned as two eyes locked on
him. “You’re awake, come in.”

Padding over the thick carpeting, Cynical
came around the sofa to face with his employer. In front of Mr.
Mancuso was a coffee table with an open laptop computer and a
steaming cup of tea.

“How are you feeling?” Mancuso asked with
genuine interest.

“Sore, but better,” Cynical said. “Mia did a
nice job.”

“Yes, she’s very capable,” Mancuso agreed.
“You should still probably see a doctor when you get a chance.
Please have a seat,” he said with a wave of his hand.

Taking a seat, Cynical did a quick check to
make sure his sash was cinched and his robe was closed for
business.

“Are you hungry?” Mancuso asked.

“Yeah,” Cynical admitted, “Now that you
mention it.”

“I’ll have Mia bring a menu to your room,” he
said. “I recommend the Crispy Orange Beef and the Shark Fin Soup.
She also makes a mean cheeseburger.”

“Thanks,” Cynical said, looking around.
“Where are we?”

Leaning forward, Mancuso touched a button on
his computer. Instantly, the TV screen on the wall flashed up an
image with the northeastern seaboard of the United States and
Canada on the left; Great Britain and Western Europe on the right.
In the vast blue area between the two continents was the small
white icon of an airplane.

“Over the Atlantic,” Mancuso informed him.
“As a precautionary measure, I didn’t want to land in Los Angeles,
or anywhere in the United States for that matter. I’m sorry for the
inconvenience.”

Cynical frowned; this was a little out of the
way.

“I don’t know what these people are capable
of,” Mancuso said, “whoever they are.”

“I heard the group that’s been chasing us is
a private security firm out of Maryland called Black Starr,”
Cynical informed him.

“Hired guns,” Mancuso said with a shrug. “The
question is who hired them?”

Both men bounced slightly as they hit an air
pocket and, for a moment, Cynical wondered if Black Starr’s
tentacles could reach thousands of miles over the water and
thousands of feet into the sky. Unfettered, Mancuso simply raised
his cup off the table until they smoothed out.

“I’ve been wondering if the US government
could be behind all this,” Cynical mused. “The FBI was involved,
but the agent I talked to didn’t know very much.”

“The FBI could have simply been assigned to
search for Michael,” Mancuso said, “Black Starr could have been
hired to destroy whatever they found.”
“But why would the US want to destroy the machine?” Cynical leaned
forward, an earnest expression on his face. “That invention could
do so much good for the country – for the world.”

“Do you know what makes the world go around?”
Mancuso asked.

“Money?” Cynical ventured.

“Oil,” Mancuso corrected him. “It literally
moves almost everything on this planet. It’s also the lifeblood of
our global economy. The government will protect the oil industry
because they are dependent on it. Look at how this country has
spent lives and treasure to stake claims on energy resources.”

“But you have the power to change all that,”
Cynical countered. “You have the answer to the world’s energy needs
in your cargo hold.”

“Perhaps I do,” Mancuso said with an
appreciation for the responsibility under his feet. “I only wish
Michael would have joined me.”

“He said he just wanted to be left alone,”
Cynical told him. “I think he and his girlfriend are going
disappear; live off the grid, at least for a while.”

“A hopeless romantic,” Mancuso said wistfully
as he sipped his tea. “You and I are not so naïve, are we, Mr.
Jones?”

“People call me ‘Cynical’ for a reason.”

“Yes.” Gesturing to his laptop, he said, “Per
our arrangement, I have deposited one million dollars in your bank
account.”

That tidbit of information caused Cynical’s
face to involuntarily break into a smile.

“Once we unload our cargo, I’ll instruct my
pilot to take you back to LA, or wherever you wish to go.”

“Anywhere?” Cynical asked.

“You can let the pilot know your destination
in the morning when we land.” Turning back to his computer, Mancuso
clicked a button.

The map on the screen disappeared and was
replaced with a logo featuring a green and gold triangle. It seemed
to be a signal their meeting was over.

Taking his cue, Cynical got back on his feet.
“Well, thank you Mr. Mancuso.”

“Don’t mention it,” the older man said, not
looking back up.

And with that, the private eye made his way
back to his little room in the sky.

With the sound of waves breaking in the
background, Cynical leisurely read the American newspaper and
sipped from a rum and fruit juice concoction. Scanning the front
page, as well as the business and technology sections, he found no
mention of Mr. Mancuso or a magnetic motor that would soon
revolutionize the world.

Not that he expected any news so soon.

It had been a little over a week since the
private jet had dropped him off at St. John’s Island. He’d
considered more exotic locations, but he was a sucker for the
Caribbean, and was already somewhat familiar with the island.

This time there were only clear skies in the
forecast, and his accommodations had been upgraded from a roach
motel to a multi-star resort. Since all he had was the bloody,
bullet-riddled clothing on his back, he had splurged on a new
wardrobe of swimming suits, tee-shirts, flip flops, sunglasses, and
one short-sleeve Hawaiian print shirt for any formal occasions that
might arise.

Peering over his new dark lenses, he spied a
tall woman walking by in front of his ocean front, ground level
room. Glancing his way, she seemed to smile as a breeze caught her
light brown hair and scattered it around her head.

Folding the newspaper beside what was left of
his Bahama Mama, he slowly got to his feet and tested his leg in
preparation of a stroll up the beach in casual pursuit.

Just then, his cell phone rang.

Since he’d arrived on the island, he hadn’t
talked to anyone other than clerks, bellboys, and waiters, and he
was actually starting to miss human conversation.

“Cynical,” he answered.

“Yeah, I know,” the flat voice on the other
end said. “It’s Agent McCobb.”

“Nice to hear from you,” Cynical said,
actually meaning it.

“Where are you?”

“Sitting on the beach,” he said vaguely.
“Enjoying a little vacation.”

“Sounds nice,” McCobb said coolly. “Any plans
on coming back to LA?”

“Probably, some day,” Cynical said,
half-kiddingly. “How’s the investigation going? Have you found out
anything more on Black Starr?”

“Yeah, we know they employ a lot of people
with military and intelligence backgrounds, and they do everything
from providing corporate security to arranging paramilitary
operations for third world countries,” McCobb explained. “The word
is, behind closed doors, they offer a variety of off-menu services
like kidnapping, torture, terrorism, and assassinations. You name
it; they’ll do it for a price.”

Given his firsthand experience with them,
that information didn’t exactly surprise Cynical. “Any idea who
they were working for this time around?”